


Between the Sheets

by SnitchesAndTalkers, the_chaotic_panda



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Humor!, M/M, Sex behind the bins!, Strangers to Lovers, fluff!, hotel au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-08
Updated: 2020-11-27
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:29:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 37,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26898217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SnitchesAndTalkers/pseuds/SnitchesAndTalkers, https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_chaotic_panda/pseuds/the_chaotic_panda
Summary: Four in a Bed4.00pm Channel 4. 1/5.Four sets of B&B owners take turns to stay at each other's places as they compete to be crowned the best value B&B.OR: Unfortunately, Pete finds himself cornered into appearing on a televised Bed and Breakfast competition with his dad. Fortunately, one of his competitors is a hot piece of ass.
Relationships: Patrick Stump/Pete Wentz
Comments: 288
Kudos: 137





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, the two of us have been looking for an excuse to collab on something for ooooh, two years now. Unfortunately, the best thing we could think of was an AU based on a British daytime television show about B&Bs. 'How interesting can that possibly be?" we hear you cry. And, like, _honestly_? We have no idea. But we wrote it, so you can have a read and see what you think.
> 
> The basic premise of the show is that four sets of B&B owners stay at one another's hotels and mark each other on cleanliness, hosting, facilities, quality of sleep, and breakfast. It sounds straightforward but oh my god, the bitching is _intense_. You haven't lived until you've seen a 65 year old retiree on their hands and knees looking for cum stains on a mattress. If you're not from the UK and you'd like to see the very essence of Britishness distilled down into five 45 minute episodes, this is the show for you.

_“It’s not like I spent a lot of time daydreaming about running a bed and breakfast. I’m a bar manager, if I’m honest.”_

_Pete looks like a bar manager. He’s dressed in a bleach-spotted black v-neck and very tight jeans, slashed to indecency. The camera_ loves _him. It lingers on the sensual mouth, the dark shadow of stubble, the long, inky lines of tattooed forearm. Pete smiles apologetically and rubs a hand through his hair. The camera devotes a lingering four-second close up to Pete’s fingers. They’re long and tanned with neat, well-buffed nails._

 _“But the economy crashed, we were staring into the face of a Tory government, and I lost an entire London nightclub in a poker game.” Pete punctuates with a tiny shrug. “So, um. Onwards and upwards, I thought. Now I’m back in Surrey,” he looks off into the distance, several thousand miles beyond the camera, “which is—Great. It’s great. This is_ better _than London.”_

_The camera pans the fireplace, the horse brasses, the reproduction Constable prints in homely, mismatched frames, and then back to Pete and his biceps. Pete’s wide mouth forms a tiny moue of displeasure._

_“Yeah. Couldn’t be happier with how things turned out.”_

_Pete crosses his arms and leans back in his chair. He doesn’t look happy at all._

*

Right now, Pete hates Whitby more than he hates anything else in the world. 

Actually, Pete hates Channel 4, the executive who thought up Four in a Bed in the first place, and the stench of wet dog wafting from his wet Barbour more than he hates Whitby. But Whitby’s in the top five. Skirting dangerously close to the top three.

Pete’s dad clears his throat. “Did they say—”

“No, dad. They didn’t say if the couple looked, ‘you know, _gay_ gay.’ It’s a surprise.”

Pete throws the ancient Land Rover around another hard bend in the road and broods about nightclubs. He misses nightclubs. Nightclubs are cool. Nightclubs are sexy. Nightclubs don’t get promoted on mid-week, teatime television. But Pete doesn’t own a nightclub any more. Hence the rain. And the dad. And the Whitby.

Corporations like to take their annual opportunity to showcase how queer-friendly they are and Channel 4 is no exception. Look at us, they shriek, the BBC beat us to first gay kiss and ITV had the first trans character, but by God, we’ll be the first channel to put queer-friendly bed and breakfasts onto teatime telly! The perky production assistant told him as much when she called him. Pride special, she said. Good for diversification, she said. Bring your dad, she said. It’ll be _fun,_ she said. The only reason Pete’s here is because he ticked _gay_ on the application form. Not because he’s fun, or interesting, or even belligerent enough to be good telly. She didn’t even _mention_ that he used to be the striker for Chelsea FC, and he can’t even feel annoyed about it because it made his dad _so happy_ to think Pete might want to promote the hotel. 

Pete’s not used to making people happy. It gave him a weird sense of purpose. What was he supposed to do?

So, that’s why Pete’s in Whitby: 300 miles from home and taking part in a televised competition against three other B&B owners. Four hotels, judged across five categories; hosting, cleanliness, facilities, quality of sleep, breakfast. It’s not string theory, but that’ll only make it more embarrassing for the loser. Pete’s the world’s biggest _twat_ getting himself into situations like this. 

To top it off, it’s bucketing down, and the only place with phone reception was at the far end of a municipal car park with the car buried halfway through a stunted oak. Pete’s hair is drenched from leaning out the window, and it’s going to curl, and he’s going to look like an _idiot_ when they get in front of a camera. He could turn the car around and drive back home—assuming the steering doesn’t pack up on him, there’s always a possibility that it _will—_ and be back in his bed by dinnertime. He’s given up on projects before. Given Pete’s track record for giving up and going home, chances are, his dad won’t even be surprised.

Hurt, yes. But not surprised.

“I _hate_ Whitby,” Pete says with feeling. “I hate the stupid rain, and I hate the stupid accent, and most of all, I hate these stupid bloody roads. Uh, hello, Whitby? Modern road planning called, they wanted you to know angles come in degrees other than 90.”

“It’s not _that_ bad…” Pete’s dad says. He doesn’t sound convinced.

“Name one good thing to come from Yorkshire, then. One. Go on.” Pete’s dad opens his mouth. “Puddings don’t count.”

His dad looks a long-suffering look into the lens of the GoPro on the dashboard, and then looks back at Pete. It’s clear one of them still feels a vague sense of English politeness. Hint: it’s not Pete. 

“Brontë was from Yorkshire, wasn’t she?” his dad tries. “You like Brontë, don’t you? You watched Wuthering Heights all the time when you were younger.”

What Pete watched was Lawrence Olivier and his handsome thighs. During the Big Gay Summer of Realisation, he watched them ten times in three days, and had the carpal tunnel to prove it. Now’s not the time to get into _that._ Pete sighs. “And _she_ died at 30. In Yorkshire. So, fat lot of good it did her.”

“I don’t think Yorkshire killed her,” Pete’s dad says mildly. 

Pete sneers. “I don’t think it _helped.”_

“Your great-grandad was from Harrogate.” 

“And we’re from Surrey,” Pete points out. Honestly, it’s like his dad is going out of his way to prove Pete’s point. “So, great-grandad got just about as far from Yorkshire as he could without swimming the channel to France. Probably ‘cause he thought it was shit, too.”

“Language,” Pete’s dad says. He makes a pained gesture at the GoPro. Then: “Ugh. _France.”_

“I _know,”_ Pete says. At least they agree on that: united in the universal European understanding that life’s not quite _that_ bad, as long as you’re not _French._

Oblivious to Pete’s emotional trauma, his dad leans forward and rummages in the glove box. 

“Tea?” he says, holding out a tartan flask that matches the tartan lining of his raincoat. “Mum made it for us. I think there’s some chocolate biscuits, too.” Pete shakes his head. If there’s anything more pedestrian than driving through Yorkshire drinking PG Tips out of a Thermos, Pete can’t think of it. _Death_ is preferable. He might as well throw himself from the cliffs and get it over with. “Go on—you’ll feel much better after a nice cuppa.” 

Before Pete can say something childish, something like, “Only if it’s laced with cyanide,” his phone vibrates on the dashboard. The car is older than his dad so handsfree is hands-off. He snatches up the handset as he hits a pothole, praying he won’t get caught by a passing police officer. Ice cold water arcs through the window Pete left open to stop the windscreen from fogging. Pete spits out half a gallon of standing water and licks tiny, gritty specks of road from between his teeth.

“Hullo?” he says, dripping.

“Wentzes! It’s Sable!” It’s the pro-rainbow production assistant, sounding far too cheerful for Pete’s liking. 

“Oh, good. We’re just coming along the—”

“Okay, okay! Petes! Peteys! We’re ready for you now! Isn’t this exciting! Just drive over to the carpark! Let’s do this!” Everything she says ends on an audible exclamation point. Pete blinks a lazy river of rainwater out of his eyes. He regrets not applying for Love Island. Majorca’s nice in October. “D’you know where you’re going! ‘Course you do! See you soon!”

She hangs up on him; Pete throws the phone onto the dash.

People respect you when you have a name they recognise. If you appear regularly in newspapers and magazines, that’s a bonus, too. They look at you and they respect you and your opinion, even if they don’t _like_ you all that much. The best part is, they respect you even when you’re doing the most outrageous, disrespectful thing. Caught shagging a minor royal in a KFC toilet? Fine, no problem, encouraged. Appear on national primetime television sky-high on a combination of Jack Daniels and supermarket cough mixture? Totally. Cool. It’s not like Pete makes the rules, he just spent his formative years taking advantage of them. 

And it was _awesome._ The highest-earning striker in the Premier League for _three years running._ That wasn’t an accident, that was the payoff for hard work and determination and losing every weekend to training since he was _six._ No birthday parties. No play dates. Live, sleep, breathe football. Pete was Someone—capitalisation intended—and more than that, Pete _mattered._

Until he fucked his hamstring, anyway. 22 years old and retired, useless, on the heap. It turned out Pete really was the sum total of his career. Nothing less. Absolutely nothing more. 

Whatever. Pete sleeks his frizzing hair in the rear view mirror and adjusts the collar of his flannel shirt. The effect is that of putting on armour: like his safety is rooted in his conventional attractiveness. He doesn’t dwell on the puddle. Or his hair. Or the cold water pooling in the crack of his arse. 

His dad offers a crumpled tissue from his pocket. “You’re a little bit, uh…”

“I hate Whitby,” Pete pauses for effect, _“so much.”_

They round another corner and get their first sudden look at the harbour. It’s filled with boats. Dozens of boats, in dozens of shapes, sizes, colours. There’s large, fat fishing vessels with wide hulls, their radio masts climbing toward the clouds, and tiny red and white cobles bumping cheerily against the gray stone walls, and a yellow tour boat offering afternoon cruises to tourists. It’s so charming, Pete feels a little bit sick.

On the far side, where the bay curves and turns its back on the North Sea, a jumble of white and sandstone buildings huddle under terracotta tiled roofs. With the steep cliff rising behind them, they blend into the natural landscape, as at home against the shore as the tiny pebbled beach. Pete’s eye climbs with the rockface, up to the very top. There, wreathed in fog, stands the ragged stone crown of Whitby Abbey. 

“Oh,” Pete says, easing down on the brake. “It’s—It’s lovely, isn’t it? I wasn’t expecting it to be lovely. Don’t you think it’s lovely?”

Pete’s dad hums and doesn’t look up from his road map. “I think we take a right just down here, next to the fish and chip shop—Ooh, fish and chips. Now _that’s_ lovely. D’you suppose we’ll get fish for supper? Be a shame if we didn’t,” he says. Like the Abbey is a picture on a postcard or a scene on the telly he can rewind and watch again later. There’s no poetry in the soul of a retired provincial solicitor. 

Sometimes, Pete finds it hard to believe they’re crafted from the same biological building blocks. He concentrates on the road, instead of dwelling on it.

*

 _"I—_ we— _like things simple. Y'know, minimalist. Chic. Trés-chic," Brendon says, sparing no phlegm. His suit wears him, rich blue and eye-hogging, his smile as bright as his cufflinks. His arms span the backrest of a grey-blue chaise longue, polished brogues mirrored by polished tiles._

_"Brendon speaks French," Patrick says._

_"Spent my year abroad there," Brendon nods, stealing away the closeup. “Magnifique,” he adds with a dinner party laugh. “Anyway, we hold ourselves to pretty high standards, so it’s only natural that we judge others accordingly. That way, it’s fair.”_

_“Yeah,” Patrick nods. “Fair.”_

_“We run a pretty tight ship, don’t we, darling.” His eyes scroll over Patrick and his long, elegant fingers are clasped to Patrick’s shoulder. Patrick’s wearing a striped jumper. It adds more pounds than the camera ever will._

_“Pretty tight,” Patrick echoes._

_“Patrick does the day to day and I’m more—big picture. It works well. We started the business, what? Five? Six years ago? Haven’t looked back since. It’s a dream come true for both of us, really, isn’t it darling?” Brendon wields a sculpted eyebrow._

_“A dream come true,” Patrick nods. He’s working his wedding ring on and off, over and over in his lap. “A dream come true.”_

*

“Here we are, on the left,” his dad says. “Way Manor.”

Pete pulls into the tiny car park in front of the building and looks up. And up. And _up._

The manor house is… bigger than it looks in the pictures. Craggy, like a mouthful of broken teeth. The sandstone has blackened over time until it looks like the walls are slowly surrendering to shadow. There are tiny mullioned windows that’ll let in no light, and _let out_ no screaming victims of the vengeful, bloody murder-ghost that _clearly_ dwells within the torture turret protruding from the north-east corner. Also, there’s an actual fucking graveyard in the front garden. It is, without doubt, the scariest-looking building in a 100-mile radius, including the Abbey. 

“Er,” Pete says. “Is this definitely it?” 

“Yes,” says his dad. “Very striking. Didn’t think your lot went in for places like this, thought you liked it all—tasteful,” he goes on. Like he can distill the rich, vibrant tapestry of the queer community into a London townhouse of sleek grey sofas in soft, stainable fabrics and white walls studded with understated modern art. 

“It’s a bit…” _Creepy,_ Pete wants to say, but doesn’t. 

“Big,” his dad finishes. 

“Yeah,” Pete says, looking up.

The windows above him are uncurtained, dead-eyed; watching him, definitely. Judging him. Deciding if he’ll survive the night or find himself in next week’s Whitby Herald as a missing person _._ He climbs out of the car and makes his way to the production staff and camera crew, huddled under mismatched umbrellas. He takes a final glance over his shoulder and jumps, convinced a pale face is watching from one of the upstairs windows. 

*

_“Oh, we’re definitely in it for the drama,” Frank says. He’s wearing a studded, sleeveless jacket that shows off his sleeves of tattoos. He has enough facial piercings to make Channel 4’s target audience tut. He sits on a red velvet church pew that’s been driving the lighting technician to distraction._

_Beside Frank sits a void of a man, his clothes so dark that his hands seem to float in midair. He brushes long, black hair behind his ear. His name is Gerard, and he looks very dead. "As far as I see it, this is the best use of the building. It suits us. We've had it fifteen years now, and we're still picking up things to decorate it with," Gerard says._

_"Yeah, we like furniture with a story behind it. Like, this pew—apparently a priest at Saint Hilda's was laid on it as he died." Frank strokes the brilliant velvet with enduring affection._

_"His successor was so haunted by the death that he began to see the priest everywhere; in the audience as he preached, in the choir when they sang, sometimes still laying on this very pew.” Gerard looks delighted. Viewers can taste the cameraman’s fear. “Freaked him out so much he had the thing reupholstered and kept in mint condition, just so the dead guy's ghost didn't decide to do more than just watch and listen..."_

_"But, yeah, we're pretty proud of what we've done here," Frank shrugs. "Gerard makes a mean vegan fry up, too. We just hope none of our visitors are scared of ghosts."_

_*_

The Ways are almost exactly as Pete expected. Of course, they both look as if they've died and been embalmed by the Misfits; of course, they could have stepped straight out of a Bram Stoker novel. This is Whitby. The whole town has been wanking itself dry over Dracula since 1897. 

"They're definitely _gay_ gay," Pete's dad informs him, quietly, as they approach the grinning couple. 

Pete Major says this about anyone wearing nail varnish, so Pete Minor holds out judgement. Unfortunately, they ignore Pete's outstretched hand and plant a total of four kisses on each of their faces, leaving Pete's dad with a wince that will take several hours to fade. Pete cedes that this probably warrants the extra _gay._

The inside of the house does nothing to remedy the fear conjured by the outside - if anything, it makes Pete even more convinced that breakfast will consist of the weakest of the group. The walls are covered with dark wooden panelling and the floorboards creak something seismic; the decor can only be described as eldritch, an octopus-shaped chandelier hanging from the cavernous ceiling and a chair with human hands and feet sitting in the corner.

 _Fake_ human hands and feet. At least, Pete hopes they’re fake. 

"Just up here," Gerard says, climbing the sweeping staircase after the camerawoman. Pete tries to smile and nod—his mates will see this, and he'll never hear the end of it if he shits his pants on TV. Then again, this is a daytime reality bed and breakfast programme. He'll never hear the end of it full stop.

Their room is at the end of a corridor that's jumped straight out of a Tim Burton film, and their door shrieks like a banshee when Gerard pushes it open. Pete’s beginning to think he applied for the wrong programme—this is probably Just For Laughs or Ghost Hunters or maybe even Big Brother. If they have to sleep in a bed full of maggots, Pete’s dad will disown him. Possibly even send him to live with Aunt Susie. Pete would take maggots over Susie any day. 

But the room Pete walks into is fine. Nice, even. Sure, there’s a goose-shaped candelabra on the desk and the TV is set in a gilt frame, but it’s decent. Cosy. It’s got two beds, for starters, so he won’t have to spend the night avoiding his dad’s cold feet. The hardwood floor is decorated with a rich purple rug that matches the curtains. Pete’s dad emits a cluck of interest that showcases his emotional range, and Pete nods his head. This almost makes up for the rest of it. 

“This room costs 135 pounds per night, and that includes breakfast,” Gerard parrots, as per the script. He still somehow manages to make it sound like a threat. “We hope you enjoy your stay.”

It's only once Gerard shuts the door behind him that Pete realises a large portion of the creepiness emanates not from the house, but from Gerard himself. Pete parks his bag next to a purple pouffe and cracks his spine. "Well," he says to his dad, "this is—interesting." 

His dad is already sitting on the bed, feeling the material of the duvet between his fingers and nodding. "'S nice. Characterful. Homely, in a scary way." He's said the same thing about Pete's mother. 

Only, it's not homely. _Homely_ would mean jumping in a hot shower and throwing on one of the plush dressing gowns at the end of the bed; _homely_ would mean taking a nap with trashy TV on the flatscreen. But Pete _is_ the trashy TV, and right now he's not allowed to do anything to alter his current state as long as there's a camera pointed at him. Can’t even sneak a chocolate digestive. All he can do is pat at his frizzy hair and try not to wince at the smell of his own feet. 

The bitching better start soon—he's been looking forward to it since he packed himself into the driver's seat seven hours ago, and if he sits here for too long, he'll forget all the witty remarks he thought up as they crawled up the M1. The large, awkward woman who's pointing a large, awkward camera at him sighs. Pete sneaks a look at his phone. His only notification is a Grindr match. The only thing he'll be fucking with his dad six feet away and a camera in his face is his chances of getting laid ever again. 

Eventually, the production assistant bursts into the room and throws them a very large, very fake smile. She definitely hasn't had to drive from Farley Green to Whitby in Monday morning traffic. "Okay!" she says, clapping her hands together. "We're ready for the inspection shots, now, so just go nuts! Try to narrate what you're seeing, our viewers want all the dirty details!" 

Pete, due to a very long, very recent period of unemployment (which his dad still refers to as 'your little blunder', as if he lost a game of Monopoly rather than his career, savings, and his house to a man with a face tattoo) knows exactly what the viewer wants. He's seen them rummage. They want pubes in the shower, stains on the bed, shit in the toilet. Pete immediately begins pulling the sheets off the mattress and squinting like this is CSI: Whitby. 

"Pretty clean," he tells the camera, then attacks the cushions. "Pillow protectors, too." 

"Little bit of dust," his dad remarks, holding out a finger smudged with white. "Not surprising, for an old building." 

"No excuse," Pete tuts, then skips towards the bathroom. This is where the real filth is. He unceremoniously shoves two fingers into the plughole and wiggles them around. "Huh. Pretty clean," he says. "Let's have a look at the toilet." 

Pete's spent much of his adult life crouched over a toilet bowl, but never with as much zeal as he does now. He peers under the seat, around the bowl, even glimpses into the U-bend—to no avail. It's so clean he could eat his digestives off it, and he tells the camera so. The porcelain is clean and white as the vampire fangs Gerard probably has, but when he turns the hot water on, the pipes begin to rattle. He'll knock a point off 'Facilities' for that. 

He's about to bitch about the tactically purple towels (and their stain immunity), but turns to find the camera pointed at something other than himself. In a blatant scramble for the spotlight, his dad has wedged himself under the bed, corduroy trousers wiggling and argyle socks pawing the floorboards. Pete rolls his eyes. The things some people will do for fame. After a few moments, he makes a muffled noise of triumph and emerges holding a wisp of dust that he proudly shows to the camera. "See?" he says. "Unacceptable."

They share a generational smirk and settle onto the bed. "Nobody's perfect," Pete grins.

* 

_Two women sit side by side on a chintz couch. They’re holding hands and their matching rings catch the light of the Tiffany lamp on the table beside them. One of them is very, very tall with a sharp, steel grey bob framing her face. The other is fae-like, a tiny little sprite of a person her hair streaked with a rainbow of colours._

_“We’re just here for a laugh, aren’t we, Ivy?” says the tallest. She’s wearing a t-shirt that says ‘I don’t care for your misogyny’._

_“Oh, yes,” says Ivy. When she smiles, her eyes twinkle. “Beryl and I will definitely keep the youngsters on their toes. We’ve been in this business forty years. What we don’t know about running a hotel’s not worth knowing.”_

*

The house begins to groan with guests as the other two couples arrive and they're finally allowed some time to settle in before whatever haunting nightmare their hosts might have planned. This is the worst bit—it's not about judgement, just socialising. Pete hates socialising. 

Back when he was important and his name opened doors and legs and he could read all about it in the tabloids the next day, going out was amazing. It wasn’t bad when he owned the place people went out to, either. But now he’s a nobody. A has-been, or a never-was, or something depressing like that. There’s only so many times you can say “I used to be famous,” before it sounds like you’re making it up.

The only saving grace is that everyone, _everyone_ here is sad enough to run their own B&B. He hopes it's not all nutters. Pete's still not allowed to shower, so he stays in his smelly, wet shirt as a show of defiance. If he has to stay grubby, the whole crew might as well suffer for it. Footsteps echo outside their room - he'd better be the token hot person. The last thing he needs during his appearance on daytime TV is to be upstaged. 

His dad falls asleep thirty seconds after the camera leaves, and Pete takes this opportunity to spy on his competition without judgement. He needs to get a jump on bitching ammunition. Mockery is a key strength of his—all the better if it's filmed. But the gap in the door isn't large enough to leer at whoever's in the hall and their (hopefully) damning physical flaws, nor can Pete make out whether they're saying anything moronic, so he inches the door open and peers out. 

The first thing he notices is that someone's singing, loudly, a strained rendition of what Pete _thinks_ is Defying Gravity, but is actually falling flat on its face. It's coming from the room at the end of the corridor. When it finally stops, the voice shouts, "Are you _sure_ you can't hear anything?" 

There's a man outside the door who shakes his head. He's short and pale and looks pretty straight, for a gay guy. He turns his head towards the door and shouts, "Nothing at all! Try a bit louder!" After a few seconds of silence, Defying Gravity continues, not much louder but considerably higher. The man smirks. Pete casually pushes the door open a bit further. 

It works. The man looks up and catches Pete's eye just as the singer tries to hit a tooth-rattling high note, and they exchange a wince. Pete lets his face fall into his classic, easy grin, and the man's lips twitch. Pete thought his days of one-look seduction died with his football career, but somehow, it's _something._ If this guy’s arse is as nice as his smile, Pete's either got himself a huge problem or an epic solution. 

Unfortunately, neither of them notice that the singing has stopped until the singer wrenches the bedroom door open and Cute Corridor Man falls inwards. He's pushed upright by a man Pete immediately dubs Forehead Guy, due to the fact that he looks like a claymation character crushed by a dry-wipe board, and the magic disappears. Forehead Guy glares right at Pete. When he puts his arm around Corridor Man, the light catches on his wedding ring. _Their_ wedding rings. Ah. 

Corridor man is yanked back inside the room and as quickly as he appeared in Pete's life, he vanishes. Pete shuts his own door and leans against it, thinking of the one that got away. But something about Forehead Guy seems familiar. Maybe he's a regular on shit telly; maybe Pete served him a shot of Sambuca on a busy night. Either way, he's definitely seen that face before. 

It's only when he's scrolling through his phone that it hits him. He taps his many Grindr notifications and, sure enough, there he is: Brendon, less than a hundred metres away, 30 years old. His profile picture is all face, dark eyes and brooding expression. His profile says _Art. Film. Coffee. Top. Dom. No chubs or bears._ Yikes. Pete liked him better when he was butchering Wicked. 

Pete closes the app and sinks back into the plush pillows. This might be _too_ much drama. Poor Cute Corridor Man. If Pete knew him beyond a glance, he might even feel pity. Alas, he's nonchalant. 

Then again, there _was_ something between them; a _spark,_ if he's being romantic, an _eye-fuck_ if he's not. Then again, it does make him wonder exactly how married Cute Corridor Guy can be. Then again, there's not a lot else to do in Whitby. Huh. He might have to change his shirt after all.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! Welcome back to another chapter of B&B Boys, and thank you for the amazing response to the first chapter! We're so glad this weird little slice of British culture was entertaining enough to interest people other than us. We hope you enjoy the next instalment!

Pete is trapped in a hotel room on the edge of the North Sea with his snoring father and he wants to fucking  _ die.  _ Not that he  _ can,  _ not that he  _ will,  _ but seriously—try signing up for a teatime special, discovering the lust of your life has done the same thing, then discovering he’s  _ married  _ in one life-crashing half an hour and see how well  _ you  _ hold up. This is worse than when Pete got arrested in Northampton, wankered and wearing nothing but a feather boa and golf shoes. Explaining  _ that _ to a half-asleep solicitor was excellent. Even better at three in the morning. Even better that the solicitor was also his father.

Sulking, Pete commandeers the armchair next to the wall his room shares with Cute Corridor Man’s. He presses his ear to the wallpaper and dabbles in a spot of casual afternoon stalking.

There aren’t a lot of words for men who spend their time listening to married couples through hotel room walls. Well, there  _ are _ a lot of words for men who do that but none of those words are  _ good, _ so Pete’s decided he’s not going to think about them. His moral compass has a wonky north. This isn’t new information.

Oh, but, speaking of new information? Here are the things Pete’s learnt, a list:

  * CCM is Welsh, in a gorgeous, sexy way. This is exciting news. Pete’s anti-biblically acquainted with guys from England, Scotland, and Ireland (Northern _and_ Republic of) but he’s never fucked a Welshman. Getting to know CCM’s _Y Ddraig Goch_ would not only give him a full set, it would be, like, _cultural._
  * CCM says the room is ‘cute’, the bed is ‘comfy’, and the house is ‘absolutely haunted, no two ways about it’. But he says it in a Welsh accent, so it all sounds kind of knee-trembly and delicious.
  * Lucky Brendon’s good looking because he’s got nothing else going for him. Brendon doesn’t like the bed. He doesn’t like the wardrobe, the bedside tables, the light fitting, or the toilet seat, either. Jury’s out on the curtains, apparently. If they’re anything like the ones in Pete’s room—purple, velveteen, _dramatic—_ Brendon probably wants them for trousers to match his sateen leopard print jacket. 
  * Brendon hasn’t done what Pete would’ve done if _he_ had CCM alone in a hotel room and set about engaging in an energetic test of the bed springs.
  * Is it just Pete, or do married couples, like, _talk_ to one another now and again? Maybe not all the time but, you know, sometimes? The silence in the next room is frostier than the half-full bag of hash browns buried at the back of Pete’s freezer. They don’t speak so much as bite at one another in escalating shades of matrimonial irritation.
  * The walls in Way Manor are distressingly thin. Not related directly to CCM, but worth bearing in mind if the smoulder they exchanged in the corridor becomes… physical.



Pete stops listening when it becomes too depressing, too much, too obvious that CCM isn’t  _ happy,  _ and Pete shouldn’t care—doesn’t care, really. Stay out of other people’s marriages: a lesson he’s learnt the hard way. People in need of an intervention rarely want one. He tips his head and looks at the grey porridge sky, then down at his phone and the Grindr notification. There’s a small, grabbing pull in his gut that he dismisses as ridiculous. Chances are, they have an open relationship, a gentleman’s agreement between the two of them. Chances are, this is all above board and, even if it’s not, it’s none of Pete’s business.

“Not being funny or anything but fuck off, Brendon,” CCM says loudly. Brendon rumbles something in response. It’s not clear but the words ‘lard’ and ‘arse’ feature more than once.

… On the other hand, it never hurts to make a good impression, to be the friendly shoulder to cry on. Pete hurries to shower in the squeaky-clean bathroom and change into socks that don’t smell of cheese and onion crisps before his dad wakes up and uses all the hot water. There’s still the Fun Local Activity to deal with. If it involves cosplay or bathing in the blood of virgins, Pete’s going to politely decline.

*

Pete meets CCM for the first time, officially, in front of the check-in desk. He looks nothing like any man Pete’s bedded in the past three years, a type that generally runs to tall, dark, and high-cheekboned, but Pete’s spent three years making horrible life choices so change is a positive. CCM’s dressed like an earnest secondary school music teacher or trendy Shoreditch dad: Stereophonics shirt under a flannel, slim fit jeans, blocky leather boots. It’s a strong look, accessorised with half an inch of unironic facial hair, a wedding ring, and a terrible husband. 

Oh God. Oh God, he’s  _ gorgeous.  _ He’s gorgeous and he’s married to a bastard and—Pete sneaks a look—great! His arse is off the charts on the measure of bum cheek perkiness. Well, isn’t that  _ perfect. _

Pete’s treated to a twinkly smile from CCM—great mouth, too, nice teeth, lower lip you could use as a pool float, everything in that general area is… awesome—and a belligerent scowl from Brendon. Odds are, Brendon has no idea he swiped right on Pete less than an hour ago. Good thing Pete’s sensible and doesn’t use his face in his Grindr profile. Good thing Pete’s kind of slutty and went with the classic almost-dick pic. Good thing Brendon will never,  _ ever _ make the link between the exposed hip bone, the tattoo, the suggestion of pubic hair and Pete’s actual  _ face.  _

“Patrick Stump,” CCM introduces himself, grabbing Pete’s hand and his shoulder, ensnaring Pete in a circuit of inadvisable attraction. “Nice to meet you.”

“Meep,” says Pete. Like roadrunner. 

“Stump- _ Urie,” _ Brendon says. He stops glaring at Patrick only so he can glare at Pete. The handshake he offers is so firm it’s less greeting, more threat. “We’re married. Happily.”

Pete’s dislike for Brendon ramps through several internationally recognised scales. Men like this don’t deserve twinkly-eyed little Welshmen with arses Byron would write poetry about. Men like  _ Pete  _ deserve those things. He wants to say something witty or cutting, or to repeat Brendon’s Grindr profile word for word, but that might make Patrick cry or give the impression Pete’s  _ interested _ in Brendon’s Grindr profile, which he’s not, so he smiles instead and says, “Pete Wentz. And this is my partner in crime, also Pete Wentz,” and then Gerard and Frank are hustling them out the door and Pete doesn’t get the chance to say anything else to Patrick before Brendon’s got him in some kind of aggressive Vulcan death grip. 

It’s fine, it’s totally fine, there’s bound to be lots of opportunities to mingle. Maybe they’re about to take a moonlit cruise around the bay or something romantic like that. 

*

They’re ushered on a ghost walk. It’s so stereotypical, Pete can’t believe he didn’t see it coming. There’s whalebones and fog and a man in a top hat who probably features on several local and national watchlists and he knows Whitby’s answer to Morticia and Gomez by name. Thinking that makes Pete feel unkind, and that makes him annoyed because he doesn’t  _ like _ feeling unkind. Anyway, his bad mood isn’t Gee and Frank’s fault. It’s Pete’s own stupid fault he’s in the middle of concurrent and escalating crises related to work, life,  _ and _ romance. No one in the world has worse luck than Pete. He hangs toward the back of the pack, out of the firing line of the camera crew, and sulks.

It’s so cold Pete can see his breath, but so dark he can’t see his fingers turning purple, so it’s swings and roundabouts. He’s switched his wet flannel for a clean, sleeveless number that would show off his lats if his lats weren’t buried under a Sherpa-lined denim jacket. His jeans are tight and torn-kneed, his trainers limited edition. There’s product in his hair and cologne on his throat. He’s starting to wish he wore an actual coat. He’s trying hard to edge closer to Patrick, who looks even more edible in a khaki tactical jacket and woolly hat. Under his gloves, there’s a wedding ring, Pete reminds himself, trying to be stern about it. The prickability factor of Patrick’s husband (exponential, by the way) does not make lusting over a married man okay. There’s morals and ethics! Pete’s two least favourite things!

Then, defying all natural laws of fairness, Patrick nudges Pete with his elbow. “Nice jeans,” he says, loud enough for his husband, the camera crew, and, oh,  _ everyone in North Yorkshire  _ to hear. His smile is… _ inviting.  _ His eyes linger on Pete’s crotch then drag back up to his mouth. Sensing something—drama, or romance, or Pete getting the shit kicked out of him by Patrick’s taller, scowlier husband—the nearest cameraman edges closer with intent. Patrick continues in ringing tones: “Mega tight. Bet getting them off’s a two-man job.”

In spite of the camera, Pete chokes. Pete forgets every word in the English language. Is this  _ flirting?  _ He nods and shrugs and makes a thin, strangled sound in one buzzy moment of brain-fry. He tingles, from the point their elbows touch all the way up to the roots of his hair, all the way down to his toes.  _ Fuck _ morals and ethics. If he doesn’t get this guy into bed, he might die. 

Phase One: ditch his dad with the middle-aged lesbians who make up the final layer of their terrible sadness sandwich.

Regretting it, Pete breaks that single sparking point of physical contact and leans toward his dad/unwitting wingman for the evening. “Dad,” he hisses. “Dad, listen to me.”

“I’m listening to him,” Pete’s dad points out mildly, nodding to the lunatic in the top hat. “This is very interesting. Did you know—”

“You need to talk to these people. It’s very important.”

“But you said—”

“I just think it might be an idea to, like,  _ mingle _ with the competition,” Pete says. “Look. Those two. Um… Beryl and—and. Ivy? Maybe? They’re… your age,” he points out. Collective time spent on earth is the only thing his dad has in common with two gay women dressed in Doc Martens and Riot Grrrl t-shirts. It’ll have to do. “You should talk to them. Over there. I’ll talk to him,” he jerks his thumb at Patrick, “divide and conquer.”

His dad looks thoughtful and says, “That’s not a bad idea, son. Make friends and influence people, build connections, foster embargos.” Then, he adds, “Then they won’t suspect a thing when we stab ‘em right in the back,” proving you should never trust anyone with a law degree.

With his dad entertained, Pete turns his attention to cornering Patrick in the least stalkery way possible. Is it Pete’s imagination, or does Patrick grimace every time Brendon touches him? Does Patrick blink a lot, or is he signalling for help in Morse code? Pete squares his shoulders and attempts to head Patrick off as he peers through the window of Whitby’s most haunted public house.

“Your husband is having a nice time,” Frank says, looming at Pete’s side like a fearsome spectre or well-placed vampire.

“What?” says Pete. It’s flattering that Frank thinks Patrick’s his husband. Pete would make a very good husband for Patrick, he’s sure of it.

“Your husband,” Frank says again, pointing. Pete follows the pale arrow of Frank’s forefinger and feels his eyes widen in horror because Frank isn’t pointing at Patrick, he’s pointing at Pete’s dad. As if Pete might be married to a man who wears corduroy trousers, a man who describes a new episode of Countdown as ‘very exciting,’ a man who is Pete’s actual  _ father.  _ Pete doesn’t say anything, but only because he’s trying not to be sick in his mouth. “You’re cute together. Been married long?”

“He’s my  _ dad,”  _ Pete says, horrified. 

Frank blinks slowly. The gesture seems foreign, like it doesn’t come naturally and he’s trying it out, assimilating to his human form. “Oh,” he says, his mouth forming a soft round. Unbothered by Pete’s disgust, he carries on saying horrible things, horribly. “Oh, it’s just you seem so close. Very affectionate. And I’m not judging the age gap or anything, but with the same last name...”

“We also have the same first name,” Pete says, “because he is my  _ father.” _ Is it possible to scrub out his brain pan with Toilet Duck? Is that a thing he can do?

“Well,” Frank tips his head to one side, “Pete’s not an  _ uncommon  _ name, is it?”

It’s about to become fractionally  _ less  _ common because Pete’s assuming a new identity and moving to Antarctica _ ,  _ and when he gets there, he’s only talking to penguins and no one will ever mistake him for his dad’s  _ sugar baby  _ ever again. Pete’s assuming a new identity as an international man of mystery. The name Porter McIlreay has a strong ring to it.  __

_ “Eurgh,” _ he says. He says it with so much heart.

Unperturbed, Frank continues, “So, you’re single?”

_ Tragically,  _ Pete thinks. “Happily,” he says. “Very, very happily. Which is why I’m here. Doing this. With my, uh—with my dad.”

Frank smiles and graciously doesn’t comment on the terrible magnitude of sadness that leads a man to engage in competitive televised bed-and-breakfasting with his father. God, that’s a sentence no one should think in their thirties. This whole thing is a losery leap into the cosy sensible sweater of middle-age.

“Maybe you’ll meet someone while we’re filming,” says Frank.

Somehow, Pete doesn’t ask who he’s supposed to pick: married gay man 1 through 4, or married lesbian A or B. Instead, he gives Patrick’s back—complete with Brendon’s white-knuckled gripping fist—a sad look.

Patrick doesn’t look back, but that’s okay. There’s always dinner. 

*

It takes patience, skill and a good deal of shoving to win his place next to Patrick at the table later that evening. They've been crammed into the centre of a too-bright gastropub that seems to think  _ grey  _ is an acceptable colour scheme and the only thing that looks vaguely appetising is Patrick's bottom lip. He’s nibbled it to a ripe, shiny pinkness. The more Pete looks, the more he understands how Eve must have felt.

He tunes into the conversation to avoid the temptation. “I inherited it,” Gee is explaining, because of course he did. “And we wanted to, y’know, share it. With the community.” Pete stifles a snort; Gee has confused  _ sharing  _ with  _ scaring  _ and also  _ selling _ . He’s charging triple figures per night, not setting up an orphanage. 

“We bought ours,” Brendon says, like he’s the first person ever to have purchased a building. “Well—I did. Patrick’s a kept man.” 

Patrick’s smile is wooden and short-lived. He seems more interested in his wine glass than whatever Brendon’s talking about, making tracks in the condensation with his thumb, over and over. Pete can sense his anxiety almost as strongly as he can sense his husband’s twattishness.

Pete wonders if Patrick’s camera shy. Or people shy. Or maybe just Brendon shy—the bloke's so boisterous, it's a wonder he hasn't been scouted by whoever gave Piers Morgan a microphone. He eclipses the limelight, offering anecdote after anecdote, opinion after bullshit opinion. Pete stopped listening when Brendon used the word  _ boutique  _ three times in one sentence _.  _ Under cover of Brendon's own blinding ego, Pete's been grazing his shoulder against Patrick's every time he spears a slice of steak and kidney pie. He's never flirted so delicately. 

By the time pudding arrives, he reckons he's getting somewhere. Patrick's given him not one but  _ two  _ gorgeously girlish giggles,  _ and  _ looked directly at Pete as he popped a baby carrot into his mouth. There's nothing to suggest Patrick hasn't realised he's sharing a table with his soulmate, and it's not the guy explaining the declining popularity of bathtubs. And whilst Pete hallucinated many aspects of the ghost walk, he's pretty sure he didn't imagine that little spark in Patrick's eyes when he mentioned Pete's jeans. No-one brings up jeans without some kind of ulterior motive, not even men with sugared smiles and bashful blushes. 

Patrick's napkin seals the deal. It sails to the floor in between them like a rose petal spotted with gravy, and Patrick leans after it, the fine fluff of his hair brushing Pete's elbow. "Sorry," he says when he resurfaces, placing a pale, elegant hand on Pete's bicep. Before he lets go, he gives it a tiny, barely noticeable squeeze. But Pete notices. Oh, Pete notices. 

"That's okay," he says, right to Patrick's eyes. It's more okay than Patrick knows. Pete tries to think of a joke—something to do with maidens and handkerchiefs and knights in shining armour—but instead he just keeps smiling until Patrick looks away. Apparently Pete's flirting abilities are inversely proportional to the cuteness of the flirtee. 

The warm imprint of Patrick's palm doesn't fade until they're shepherded out of the restaurant. Pete still hasn't thought of anything to say, so he responds in kind, with a press of his hand to the space between Patrick's shoulder blades as they rise from the table. It's innocent enough, until he slides his fingers to the small of Patrick's back. A smile flickers across Patrick's face as their eyes meet—he wriggles his round, gorgeous shoulders. "Tickles," he mumbles. 

_ I can do more than tickle,  _ is what Pete will later wish he'd said, but before the custard-filled gears of his brain can begin to grind, Brendon has rounded the table and taken Patrick's waist. "Come on, Pat," he says. "The faster you walk, the more of that trifle you'll burn off." 

Patrick's smile is snuffed out. "Leave off," he says, giving Brendon a weak shove. Brendon's hand doesn't budge. He leads Patrick away, and Pete falls into line behind them, watching the curl of Brendon's fingers over Patrick's hip. His wedding ring gleams under the lights. So much for an open relationship—he's pretty sure they're supposed to work both ways. Maybe Brendon's Grindr is old, or unused, or fake.

Pete's not a homewrecker. He's wrecked hearts and bathrooms and other people's underwear, but never broken up a family. He keeps picturing a collection of round-faced Welsh kids crying as their dads throw Pete's name back and forth over burned dinner and divorce papers—but maybe he's overthinking this. Patrick's unhappiness is written into every glare he throws at Brendon, in every wounded look and reluctant touch. This might be one of those rare occasions where the only genuinely moral thing to do is lick over every inch of Patrick's body until he screams the number of a solicitor. But, probably not. 

“Brendon’s a bit of a character,” Pete’s dad tells the camera as they stand, shivering in their coats, for the post-dinner talking heads. Pete’s snort fogs the air in front of him— _ bit of a character  _ where Pete’s from means  _ a lot of a bastard.  _ “I think we sized up the competition, didn’t we?” 

Pete shrugs; he's given as little thought as possible to Patrick's size for the sake of a) his sanity and b) not getting a boner on TV. “Nobody’s got the claws out, yet.” More’s the pity. Patrick’s nails would leave such lovely marks down Pete’s spine. 

With this in mind, he smiles right into Brendon’s made-for-TV face as they swap over. He hopes Brendon saw it all—the touches, the laughter, he hopes Brendon can taste the butter-thick sexual tension on his tongue. Above all, though, he hopes no more screen time stands between him and his bed. His breakfast roll at Northampton Services seems days ago. 

But alas, a man too smart to be a runner yet too grumpy to be a producer tells them to wait up for the bedtime shots. Pete sighs in his face and nothing changes. His days of people pandering to him have well and truly kicked the Champagne-filled bucket. 

Pete spends the rest of the evening sighing with increasing affectation, not least because the person taking their clothes off in his bedroom is his  _ dad _ , and not Patrick. Patrick’s probably a bastard, too. A silent bastard. Those are the worst kind, Pete thinks, but perhaps he’s getting them mixed up with farts.

Maybe Patrick’s the human form of a bad smell. Maybe he...drifts, and now Brendon seeks revenge. Maybe he hangs around in the wrong places and Brendon's sick of it. Or maybe he’s got some kind of trifle-induced stomach issue that means he'll come out in a rash if he doesn't walk it off, and their relationship is just fine, thank you very much. Pete can think of a million scenarios in which he's got the wrong end of an extremely alluring stick. 

On top of all this  _ thinking,  _ Pete’s also being subjected to his dad’s end-of-day summary—the man’s taken  _ notes,  _ for crying out loud. He rules Frank and Gee as gimmicky, the lesbians as snooty and Brendon and Patrick as too big for their boots. God, Pete hopes Patrick’s big. 

"He's alright," Pete says to his pillow. It's irritatingly fresh. "Patrick, I mean." 

Pete Sr. peers over his reading glasses. "Is he," he says slowly. Pete concentrates very hard on keeping his face as unreadable as possible. "Hm." 

"You can't hate everyone on principle," Pete reasons, except he totally, absolutely hates Brendon on principle. "Or they won't give  _ us  _ good scores." 

"True," his dad grumbles. He's brought his nicest silk dressing gown to wear for the bedtime shots. Pete has begrudgingly remained un-naked. He'll whip his shirt off as  _ soon  _ as the camera has been and gone in protest of the show's stupid no-nipple rules.

When they finally do arrive, it's pretty clear nothing they film from this point onwards will make the edit—the production assistant's smile has dimmed from 100 watt to energy-saving. He and his dad say a simple, entirely fake goodnight and turn the light out, only to immediately turn it back on so the crew can exit the room without any injuries. It's barely 10pm, anyway. His dad will be reading about the Somme for another two hours. 

Pete scrolls mindlessly through sets of abs within a 10-mile radius until the crew finally clunk back down the stairs. It sounds as if they all make it to the ground floor without anyone tripping, falling and halting filming indefinitely. Pete locks his phone and stares at his own squashed face in the black screen—he hasn't been filmed so much since he scored that penalty against Liverpool in the final two minutes. If only ten men would leap on top of him. 

He tells himself it’s just the wind when he hears raised whispers from the other side of the wall. When a piece of furniture shifts, that’s probably the wind too. The wind is also easily mistaken for someone hissing  _ fuck you.  _ Pete would really like to go and comfort the wind. And if the wind wants to fuck him, that's fine too. 

Then the wind slams a door with such force that the whole house rumbles, and Pete sits up in bed. “Bloody hell,” he says. 

“It’s been a long day,” his dad reasons, “they’re probably just letting off some steam.” 

Pete makes a face. “I might just—check everything’s alright.” He pads to the door and listens - he can hear footsteps. "Wait," he adds, whipping his shirt over his head and throwing it towards the bed. 

"Yes, it is warm in here," Pete Sr. grumbles. "We can knock at least two points off for that." 

Pete regrets taking his shirt off when he steps out into the corridor. It's dark and creepy and creaking, and Pete's not comfortable exposing his nipples to ghouls. He folds his arms over his chest and peers through the shadows. The spindly coffee table has turned to a skeleton, the antlers on the wall a pair of reaching hands. He can see tomorrow's headlines already; Former Footballer with No Healthy Fear of Ghosts Dies Horrific Nipple-Related Death. He fumbles for the torch on his phone. 

"Hello?" says somebody Welsh. Pete starts, shining his torch down the corridor and directly into Patrick's eyes. "Oh," he squeaks, throwing a hand over his face. 

"Sorry," Pete breathes, pointing the light at Patrick's crotch instead. He's wearing plaid pyjama bottoms and no socks. Pete fancies he can see, if he angles the torch  _ just  _ right, the impression of Patrick's penis. And, boy, does it impress. "I heard the door slam. Everything okay?" 

"Yeah," Patrick says too fast. When Pete really looks, he sees redness around Patrick's eyes. "Yeah, fine.” 

"Tonight was fun," Pete tries, when Patrick doesn't say anything more. "Nice food." 

"Yeah, nice." 

"Yeah." Pete's losing this. Sober flirting sucks balls. At this rate, he'll be lucky if there's any ball sucking at all. He decides to stick to trouser talk. "I like your pyjamas." 

"Oh," Patrick says with a weak laugh, "M&S. I like your, um." He points to Pete's chest. 

"Nipples?" Pete offers. 

"Tattoos," Patrick corrects, but his eyes linger for a little too long. He looks...ruffled, and not in a fun, sexy way; his lovely mouth is pressed into a lopsided line and his eyes are dull, tired. 

"Are you sure you're okay," Pete says gently. "Like, I know I'm a complete stranger, but, I dunno, you can—” 

Pete's about to wax lyrical about the merits of communication and the inherent need to connect, but Patrick kisses him. He's  _ about  _ to be a gentleman, play the long game, but Patrick  _ kisses  _ him. 

It's a bit clumsy, a bit wet, a bit off-centre, but then it's over and all that's left of it is the wet patch on the side of his mouth and a man who looks seconds from a mental breakdown. "I'm sorry," he says, "I don't know why I did that, I don't usually, uh—” 

Pete has several talents. One is kicking a ball. Another is fitting five Creme Eggs in his mouth at once. Another is kissing. Pete's really, really good at kissing, and as much as he found Patrick's half-arsed peck on the face adorable, it just isn't going to cut it. He places one hand on Patrick's warm, plush waist and the other along his jaw, then leans close enough to feel Patrick's quick breaths on his face and says, "Don't apologise."  _ Then,  _ he goes for the kiss. 

Under normal circumstances, Patrick wouldn’t stand a chance. He’d fall against Pete and melt into putty, warm and supple under Pete’s skilled, guiding hands. But under normal circumstances, Patrick would be drunk, horny and available, and as it stands, he’s sober, depressed and inescapably married. This combination turns out to be far more potent than Pete anticipates; Patrick  _ surges  _ towards him, his wanting mouth pushing, biting, chasing a squeak of surprise from Pete’s throat. His hands fit to Pete’s hips and his tongue plunders until Pete’s flat against the wall, wound with Patrick like a vine and stripped of all bravado. All he can do is groan into Patrick’s mouth and hope Patrick never, ever stops. 

As soon he thinks it, Patrick steps away. Pete’s left buzzing, bereft, his lips hanging open and the doorframe digging into his spine. “Fucking hell,” he says. His tongue tastes unfamiliar. 

Whatever crazed, lustful creature just leapt into Patrick, it’s gone, now. Patrick looks exhausted; his hair is messed and his glasses droop to one side, his mouth smudged with spit. He wipes it away with the back of his hand. “I’d better, um.” He gestures towards his bedroom. “I’m sorry,” he blusters, and then he’s rapping at Brendon’s door. Pete has just enough sense left in him to slip back into his own room before that expansive forehead breaks his nose. 

“Everything alright?” Pete’s dad asks as Pete drifts back to bed. 

“No idea.” He falls face first into the pillows and takes a deep breath of fresh linen. 

“Trouble in paradise?” 

“What?” Pete grunts, pushing frizzed hair out of his face. Maybe dads can sense these things. “What do you mean?” 

Pete Sr. jerks his head towards the wall. “Those two. Isn’t that what you went to check?” 

“Oh, Yeah,” Pete remembers. “Yeah, fine. Everything’s fine.” Patrick hadn’t been fine. Patrick had been— _ desperate.  _ Like a gust of wind, or—or quicksand. Something—wanting. 

“They’ll work it out,” Pete’s dad says, barely looking up from his book. 

“Maybe.” 

Pete hopes they don’t. Pete hopes Patrick’s signing divorce papers as they speak, and pretty soon, he’ll knock on Pete’s door and tell him he’s the one, he’s always been the one. But Pete hasn’t heard any more shouting. Maybe they’ve made up. Maybe they’re having sex right now, maybe Pete’s spit is on Brendon’s tongue. Maybe Pete was a revenge snog. Maybe Patrick was just upset. 

Pete falls asleep, confused and thinking about Patrick’s mouth.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Thursday, lovelies! Enjoy the swift descent into love/lust!

Somehow, Patrick doesn’t die a fiery, kiss-related shame death during the night. Somehow, Patrick wakes up on the chaise in the corner of the room, neck cramped and back twinging, too old for sleeping on ornamental furniture. Somehow, waking up hale and hearty is _worse_ than dying in his sleep _vis a vis_ the ill-advised, impossibly stupid, chest-tinglingly _gorgeous_ kiss from a man who’s not his husband. Somehow, Pete Wentz has, in twelve hours, become the only thing about Patrick’s life that isn’t horrible.

This lasts for less than a minute, absolute tops, before Pete becomes the most horrible thing in Patrick’s life. Because now, Patrick: known idiot, has to go downstairs and face Pete over toast, eggs, and tiny boxes of frosted flakes. They have to have casual, lighthearted conversation and Pete’s mouth will move and Patrick will think about Pete’s mouth moving under his own and Patrick will die, probably. He wonders if Pete laughed about it with his dad, which makes him feel sweaty. He wonders if it was a _ploy,_ which makes him feel sick. 

So, Patrick makes an executive decision. He decides he is _not_ going to think about the intimate details of last night’s snog. First of all, there’s no way it’s going to be repeated, so thinking about it is academic and a waste of time. Second, snogging attractive strangers in dark hotel corridors is a pastime for people much younger, braver, and more attractive than Patrick. Third, Pete is a skilled and considerate kissing partner with smooth, soft lips and an inquisitive tongue and— _dammit._

Shit—oh, God—the details are flooding back and… did Patrick instigate a pity kiss with poorly-executed, uninvited _mouth-lunging?_ Patrick buries his face in the pillow and groans. God, _God._ The absolute, gut-turning horror of it all. He’s a hideous disaster.

Patrick walrus flops onto his back and stares at the purple ceiling for fifteen miserable seconds, sweating himself into a gross and slippery state of advanced social anxiety. Agreeing to go along with filming Four in a Bed mid-messy divorce seems less and less sensible with every awful event that unfolds. This is all the fault of Brendon and his towering ego. 

Then, things get exponentially worse when Brendon opens his eyes and starts complaining. “The bed’s uncomfortable,” he says. “The curtains aren’t thick enough and the radiator’s jammed on high. I’ve been awake half the night. They’re getting a 6, absolute tops.”

“Oh,” Patrick says. _He’s_ been awake half the night stressing about kissing and marriages and the general state of his life so far. Brendon snored throughout. Clearly they were awake for different halves of the night. “The couch was pretty comfy. So…”

“Okay,” Brendon says patiently. “But no one knows you slept on the couch, do they? They think you slept in the bed. And I’m telling you the bed’s rock hard and the pillows feel like concrete.”

“Hmm,” Patrick says. He feels disinclined toward acquiescence. In fact, he feels squirrely with annoyance and squirmy with embarrassment and he channels that into bloody-minded pugnacity. “Only: I slept quite well, actually. Very comfortable, this chaise. I’d give them a 9, any day of the week.”

Brendon sits up in bed and lets the duvet pool at his waist. Patrick waits for the stab of attraction he used to feel faced with Brendon’s pectorals, but nothing comes. If Patrick lies perfectly still and concentrates on the single hairline crack threading its way across the ceiling, maybe he won’t think about _Pete_ shirtless. Brendon sighs, and continues to talk. “Patrick, we’re supposed to present a united front. I slept in the bed, so I get the casting vote.”

Patrick’s suddenly hot all over. He shuffles onto an elbow and scowls at Brendon. “It’s a bloody B&B competition, not international diplomatic relations. This isn’t the UN, you don’t get a _veto._ Stop being so—so _nasty_ about everything. It’s… it’s… not nice, okay.”

Patrick shudders, running out of steam rather than coming to a decisive halt. Brendon rolls his eyes and starts scrolling through his phone. “You know, this is why we’re getting divorced,” Brendon says. “You’re argumentative, you’re pigheaded, and you refuse to admit when you’re in the wrong. Team work makes the dream work, Pat. Remember that.”

Actually, they’re getting divorced because Brendon docked his load into his assistant while Patrick was back in Cardiff visiting his mum. Patrick arrived home early to find Ryan squirming on the desk in their office and stood in the doorway for a while, waiting to feel shocked, or sad, or angry. Instead, the only thing he felt was a vague hope that, if this wasn’t the first time, they’d at least had the decency to give the woodwork a good going over with bleach. 

Dismissed, Patrick stands, sucking in his stomach, and gathers clean underwear, his washbag. 

“Are you wearing the stripy jumper today?” Brendon asks.

Patrick pauses, halfway to the bathroom. It’s the first time he’s asked Patrick something about himself in six months.

“Um,” Patrick says, blinking away grit and the taste of Pete’s tongue in his mouth. “I don’t—maybe? Why?”

“Makes you look fat,” Brendon says, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and yawning massively. “I mean. Fatter. You know.”

Patrick’s been married to Brendon for ten years, eight months, and eleven days. He thinks he must’ve been happy for at least some of that time, because if he wasn’t, he would’ve divorced him sooner. It’s hard to know for sure; Patrick’s so used to feeling _unhappy_ that remembering his happiness is like finding the north star in thick fog. It’s there somewhere, but a full set of scientific equipment is needed to figure out _where._

Patrick’s life isn’t improved when Pete corners him by the cereal tray in the dining room, his mouth twisted into an apologetic smile. “Branded cereal,” he observes, loading his bowl with a small chocolatey mountain of coco pops. “Fancy.”

“Yeah,” Patrick says, guarded. Whatever tricky, psychological warfare this is, he wants no part in it. He tips a solitary Weetabix into his bowl despite a lifelong hatred of wheat-based cereals generally, and Weetabix specifically. He pours on skimmed milk and looks down into his sad little bowl of misery carbs. 

Undeterred, Pete carries on saying things, despite Patrick’s ardent wish that he would not. “You know, I used to play a lot of sport and I wasn’t allowed to eat stuff like this.” He cheerfully adds sliced banana and full-fat milk to his bowl and plonks a chocolate croissant on top for good measure. “Didn’t eat a single refined carbohydrate between the ages of 12 and 23. You’d think I’d be over it by now. But nope. Still eat like a pig if no one’s there to stop me.”

Patrick looks at Pete, startled. It’s a dig; has to be, and it hurts. He knows he has no right to think Pete wouldn’t make fun of him, but he’s hurt by it nonetheless, a ridiculous little domino fall of feelings, because Pete was _nice_ to him last night and now he’s being mean, right in front of everyone at the continental breakfast buffet.

For the record, it’s not like Patrick left his hotel room last night with the intention of kissing Pete. He didn’t even want to kiss Pete’s stupid, handsome face when he lunged across the corridor and did, like, that very fucking thing. Or: he wanted to kiss Pete, but less because he’s Pete, and more because he’s not Brendon. So, take _that,_ Pete Wentz. Or something.

Of course while he’s thinking this, he’s not answering and Pete’s looking at him like he expects Patrick to say something. The camera man hovering over Pete’s shoulder looks pretty invested, too. So, “Good for you,” Patrick says. Pete’s face crumples, just a tiny bit. Patrick points his cereal spoon toward Brendon, who’s lounging back in his chair and scrolling through his phone with his Grindr Face. “Well. I should get back to my _husband_ …”

Pete’s mouth twists like he just bit down on a lemon. The great thing about being in the middle of a messy and complicated divorce is that there’s very little emotional energy left to worry about anyone else’s feelings. Patrick smiles at Pete, vague and small, and takes his Weetabix to the table. And if he closes his eyes for a moment and pictures Pete’s whisky eyes, tattoos, strong hands on Patrick’s face, well. That’s between Patrick and his stupid, fast-beating heart.

*

_“Okay.” Brendon pulls out his wallet and withdraws a small fistful of bank notes. He slides them into a purple envelope. “Happy?”_

_“Yeah. Yeah, definitely. They deserve it,” Patrick says. His smile is heartfelt. Women of a certain age up and down the country agree it’s such a shame he’s gay. He’d be a lovely match for their granddaughters._

_As Patrick turns away, the camera lingers on Brendon’s hands. Carefully, Brendon removes twenty pounds and slides it back into his wallet._

*****

_This is the worst part,_ Patrick thinks as they crawl down the M1 at rush hour. He's thought this about every new situation in which he was paired off with Brendon—the activities, the mealtimes, the double bed. The journey up here, when Brendon made him stop the car three times because he felt sick, because Patrick's car smells, because of the air fresheners Brendon insists on dangling from the mirror, was a strong contender for the worst part. But now, on the long slog back to London, the worst part isn't the driving, or the scent of artificial pine, or even Brendon—it's _Pete._

Guilt is usually what Patrick feels whenever he enjoys himself. Regret, too. Maybe a touch of anger, that Pete dared look at Patrick like he's anything other than a sad, ageing soon-to-be divorcee stuffed into a sweater. That he makes Patrick _feel_ something. He'd imagined the inevitable game-playing to involve made-up pubes in the shower and a single speck of dust in the extractor fan, not snogging the opposition on the mouth and expecting them to just - carry on. Patrick's hands clench on the steering wheel. The light of Brendon's phone screen keeps catching in the corner of his eye. The sooner they win this stupid contest, the better. 

The sign for Woodall Services slides past them and Patrick's mind slips to dinner, as usual. _Always thinking of your stomach,_ Brendon likes to say, and _you do know strawberry milkshake doesn't count as a fruit,_ and Patrick will cast himself out of the driver's seat and onto the motorway and, in the moments before he's scraped to death, think of Brendon's burning body in the resulting fiery wreck. He lets the exit creep past them and wallows in the frustration of traffic instead of the emptiness of hunger. And the emptiness of loneliness. And the emptiness, full stop. Besides, he wouldn't want to die in this jumper. 

By the time London glows on the horizon, the dashboard clock has shifted to midnight. Brendon is fast asleep. Ten years, eight months, _twelve_ days. 

*

Beryl and Ivy don't stand a chance. Patrick hates to admit it—they've smiled at him more times in the last two days than Brendon has in two years—but the building is tired, sun-bleached and leaning very slightly to the left. Brendon snorts when he sees it, hands tucked in his sheepskin coat. 

" _And_ no onsite parking," he mutters under his breath, his elbow nudging Patrick's arm. "This is a joke." 

"Do you think I'm someone else?" Patrick asks. 

Brendon has a wonderful, soul-destroying talent for smiling and bitching at the same time. "Bloody wish you were," he growls through perfect, camera-ready teeth. The crew close in as he knocks on the door. Patrick’s hurt will have to wait. 

"Hello, boys!" Beryl chirps when she sees them. "Welcome to the Lodge! Come on in." 

The camera follows them like a predator. Patrick cowers away from it—he's self-conscious enough without having his own warped face reflected back at him in the lens. His beard isn't coming in as well as he'd hoped, but at least it hides his double chin. 

It's only when Brendon begins to tear their room apart that Patrick realises he's barely looked at the B&B. He can't remember a single detail of the foyer, or the staircase, or even Beryl; they could've walked into an 80s-themed disco bedroom and all he'd notice is that yellow light brings out the bags under his eyes.

"Patrick." The bright-eyed producer is waving her acrylic nails at him. "Just as we did in Whitby—try to look around, comment on what you see. Just like Brendon." She talks like Brendon: downwards. 

Patrick finds no dust. He finds no hairs on the bedspread. The furnishings are plain and unobtrusive. It really is _fine._ Good, even, for £75 per night including breakfast. But as Brendon has made clear over the course of their long and unfortunate marriage, _fine_ isn't good enough. He holds a speck of dust on one finger and shows it to the camera. He points to a tuft of fluff on the carpet, a splash of stray paint on the skirting board. It's too shabby, too dull, too _unloved_ for Brendon. Patrick slumps to the bed and aches with empathy. 

When the camera leaves, so does Brendon's charm. "You could've at least _tried_ not to run away from the fucking camera," he sighs, stretching his thin frame across the other side of the bed. Patrick hates having him so near. He can feel every razor remark brewing on Brendon's tongue. 

"Isn't it my turn to have the bed," Patrick says, small and tired. 

Brendon snorts. "You slept next to me for ten years, you can manage another night." 

"And you slept with other people," Patrick bites. "Look, I don't mind going along with the whole, married couple thing for the cameras, but I'm not sharing a bed with you, it's too—weird." 

Brendon pouts and reaches out a hand, his fingers suddenly eating into Patrick's shoulder blade. "Okay. Alright, I get it," he says gently. He hasn't spoken like this since they were at uni. "It's okay. I know this is hard for you. You're hurting, and I'm, like, _right here,_ and it wasn't fair of me to expect you to just—get over me." 

"What? No, I—” 

"I promise I won't, like, _tempt_ you. So long as _you_ promise to, y'know, try to move on." 

Patrick swats his hand away and wishes the room were as dusty as Brendon seems to think it is—that way, they may both be entombed until an archaeologist digs them up and names their skeletons 'The Lovers' or some crap. "I promise," he grimaces. 

Any sincerity is lost when Brendon's lazy smirk returns and he pats Patrick on the back. "Chins up, chubs." 

Patrick decides to drop at least three points for 'Facilities' when he tries, and fails, to log into the hotel Wi-Fi and Google "fastest way to kill with bare hands". 

*

Brighton isn't quite as charming in October. The sea is a grey mass undulating against a grey sky, and the wind blows like a sharp-nailed slap. Patrick slides his tongue over his chapped bottom lip—he's dug a sizeable chunk out of it over the course of the last three days, and keeps chewing on the hapless flap of skin that tries to crawl over the wound whilst he's asleep. He'll be one bite from bleeding as long as Brendon's around. 

Pete isn't helping, either. He's being _friendly,_ of all things, grinning widely at Patrick when their eyes meet and making faces at Patrick whenever the wind blows cold enough to make them both wince. Patrick had hoped, maybe, after two days apart and several hours of distance between them and the dark corridor where they kissed, something might have changed. That he might not see that mouth and immediately remember what it felt like underneath him. That his cock might not stir like Pete's given any indication that he might want to fuck Patrick. 

It's abundantly clear that they're not meant for one another. Pete's one of those men who looks good in _anything,_ one of those men whose smile falls so easily on his lips, one of those men who would never, if they were the last people on earth, choose Patrick. If Patrick had wanted to feel unattractive, he would've applied for Love Island. 

He shuffles his way to the back of the group when they huddle together on the promenade, the camera pointed at them. Beryl gestures to the long wires that run overhead, stretching a hundred metres or so down the beach and blowing around in the wind. "Welcome to Brighton, everyone!" she says, scripted but convincing. "Today, we're going ziplining!" 

The group emits a half-hearted cheer. Patrick's tongue suddenly feels too big for his mouth. 

Behind Beryl is a white tower of metal. An instructor appears, harnessed and helmeted, but Patrick stops listening in favour of staring up at the tower, at the rust on the stairs, at the way it seems to sway in the wind. He can't vomit in front of the cameras. He can't vomit in front of _Pete._

Someone hands him a harness and it turns to a tangled mess in his hands. Everyone, even Beryl and Ivy, has managed to step easily into their harnesses. Everyone has also managed to refrain from a nervous breakdown. Patrick stares at the endless loops of rope until Brendon snatches it out of his grasp. 

"Legs in there, this round your belly," he snaps. 

Patrick does as he's told, tightening the straps until the harness digs into his softer parts. He shuffles after the group looking like a badly constructed balloon animal and begins to climb the steps of the tower. 

Every time he looks down, the pebbles drop further away and take Patrick's stomach with them. The bow of his shoelace dangles between his feet - one misstep is all it would take to send him tumbling towards the ground. He takes a deep breath and focuses on the ladder in the back of Ivy's tights as she disappears around the curve of the stairs. 

That he makes it to the top is a miracle in itself. That he doesn't immediately faint at the sight of two flimsy plastic seats dangling from parallel cables is another. He wraps a hand around the ice-cold railing and shuts his eyes, the drone of the instructor washing over him until— 

"—who wants to go first?" 

Like the turret of a tank, Brendon's head turns to look at him, and Patrick stares down the barrel of his moving mouth. "We will." 

"Great! Step right up." 

Patrick shakes his head. "I don't want to." It's not the first time he's said this to Brendon, but it might be the first time they've both been fully clothed. 

Brendon laughs and it cuts like the wind. "Don't be silly. It'll be fun!" He talks like a new man in front of the camera, but the same old Brendon is in his flashing eyes, in the pinch of his hands as he urges Patrick forward. 

“Don’t do it if you don’t want to, sweetie,” Ivy says, and it’s all Patrick can do not to cling to her for dear life. 

"Patrick," Brendon says. "Stop being a baby."

"No," Patrick says, "I really, _really_ don't want to." The camera is pointed right at him. It's becoming a _scene_. He can see this going in the trailers already, repeated over and over until Patrick's cowardice is his defining characteristic. 

"Actually, I'm not too keen either," Pete says, a knight in shining wet weather gear. There's rain clinging to his hair and the wind has blown streaks of colour into his cheeks—this is not the moment for weak knees. "Dad, why don't you join Brendon. We'll retreat to solid ground." 

Patrick could kiss him. Patrick _has_ kissed him. Patrick tries to focus on that, the memory of Pete's mouth, the touch of his fingers over Patrick's face, instead of the glimpse of ground he gets as he takes the first slippery step back down the stairs. 

"I'm right here," Pete says, landing a hand on Patrick's shoulder. "Take your time." 

Patrick's missed kindness. Reassurance that everything, even the scary stuff, is going to be alright in the end. Pete's hand stays lightly on his shoulder until the final few steps, when it slips away and leaves Patrick to lumber onto the concrete. Patrick's just glad it was ever there at all. 

But each time Patrick tries to dismiss Pete as fleeting, or vapid, or uncaring, Pete circles back to him, making Carry On faces as the instructor loosens his harness. Patrick's never felt so seen; they settle onto the nearest damp bench and watch Brendon fly overhead, but Pete's eyes always return to him. 

"Are you really afraid of heights? Or—were you just being nice," Patrick says eventually, picking at a stray thread on his jeans. When Pete shrugs, their shoulders brush. 

"Not terrified," Pete hums, "but not— _eager_ to fly through the rain on a rubber disc. Also, oh my God, is it just me or is alone time really fucking hard to come by right now? Like, am I the only one who wants to murder my dad in cold blood?" 

“Yeah, deffo,” Patrick says. “I haven’t thought about murdering your dad _once.”_ Pete brings their shoulders together and laughs. "But… no," Patrick says emphatically, "no, it's sort of—gruelling. Like, I'm not being funny, but I have to go to the loo just to get rid of him. Brendon. It's nice to talk to you. To—someone other than him, I mean." 

The bench is long enough for the two of them to sit comfortably apart, but Pete has stayed close, close enough to touch, close enough that when he turns his head and grins at Patrick, Patrick could quite easily plant another ill-advised kiss to his lips. He hasn't wanted to kiss Brendon in months. 

"It's nice to talk to you, too," Pete says, as if he means it. He looks at Patrick like he knows, like he sees right through the blank look Patrick's pasted onto his face. 

Is it wrong, as Brendon zips by overhead, to hope—just for a second—that the cable might snap? 

*

An hour later, Patrick’s tripping down the hotel stairs in what could be his most strategically unsound move so far. And not just because he risks minor and major dislocations on the rickety staircase.

Brendon’s in the shower, or sulking. Both, most likely. He’s a multi-tasker like that. Patrick’s throwing himself down the staircase at warp speed because he _thinks_ he caught a glimpse of Pete’s hair in the tiny paved courtyard behind the hotel. Patrick really wants to talk to Pete again. Alone. This is for normal, apology-giving reasons and not nefarious, kissing-against-the-bins reasons. 

Not that Patrick expects Pete to _want_ to kiss him. Patrick’s got eyes in his head, thanks a lot. He can see that they’re not so much in different leagues as they are competing in different sports. Every time Patrick closes his eyes, he sees himself lunging at Pete’s face. Yeah, Pete kissed back but pity snogging exists. _Don’t apologise,_ Pete said. Well, Pete’s about to learn that if Patrick’s good for anything, it’s long-winded, awkward apologies.

“Pete? Is that—” The courtyard’s pitch black when Patrick bursts through the fire escape, but only for a second until the security light clicks on and the yard, street, and all of fucking Brighton & Hove lights up like runway one at Heathrow. “Argh!” Patrick yelps, tripping on a loose paving stone—That’s another point deducted for facilities, God, don’t these people have any empathy for skulkers?—and barrelling into something solid and warm that says ‘Oof’. Patrick closes his eyes and thinks about clicking his heels together three times. This level of idiocy—it’s getting beyond a joke. No one deserves this. 

“Patrick?” Pete says, sounding panicked and high-pitched. “What the fuck are you doing, sneaking around like that?”

Patrick gestures to the door and the security light and screws his face up. “Sneaking? Oh, yeah. Pure stealth, I am. Proper fucking secretive. They call me Cat-foot Pat back in Cardiff.”

“Well, nickname well-earned,” Pete says. He’s showered since the zip line debacle, straightened up his hair and changed into a Metallica shirt and torn jeans. Patrick wants to bury his nose in the golden yoke of Pete’s throat and sniff him. “So,” Pete goes on, when it becomes obvious that Patrick’s just going to stare at him, “what brings you to the party yard?”

“Needed some air,” Patrick says. He jerks a thumb back over his shoulder at… everything, really. Brendon and the camera crew and London and his own ball-and-chain marital asset hotel. “And—You know.”

Pete nods. “Yeah. I pretended I took up smoking when I moved back in with mum and dad. They were disappointed, but I had a reason to leave the house for five minutes once an hour, so… who’s the idiot?”

Patrick laughs at that, his breath fogging as he leans back against the wall and looks around the unlovely courtyard. They stand in silence, staring at the wheelie bins, the gate, the cigarette butts scattered across the concrete, until Pete’s eyes slide back to Patrick. “No Brendon?” he asks lightly. Patrick rolls his eyes and shakes his head. “Ah. All alone without a chaperone. Dangerous.”

Patrick turns, props his shoulder against the wall and looks at Pete. “I don’t need a chaperone,” he says, and even to his own ears, it sounds defensive. “I can talk to whoever I want.”

Pete hums and grins to himself, definitely not at Patrick. It’s the smile of a man who knows something and doesn’t much feel like sharing the secret. Patrick can guess what he’s thinking, and thinks about shoving him headfirst into the bin and leaving him to suffocate. He decides he’s not going to give Pete the satisfaction of knowing he’s ruffled.

“I came to apologise, if you must know,” Patrick says, cutting and not apologetic at all. Still defensive, then.

Pete glows in the dark, all shiny eyes and straight, white teeth. “Yeah?” he says. “What for, then? Because I’m not gonna lie to you, I don’t actually give much of a shit about Brendon or his feelings or your marriage. But I don’t want to be the guy you blame when the whole thing falls apart, so—”

Pete stops talking. It turns out, it’s hard to talk with a mouthful of tongue. Patrick would know, because he’s wrestling with a mouthful of Pete’s tongue, and Pete’s lips hard against his own. Patrick licks the belligerence from Pete’s tongue until his knees wobble and the only thing holding him upright is the hot, solid length of Pete’s chest, abs, groin pressed against him. When they break apart, Patrick’s not sure which of them is gasping harder.

“Fuck,” Pete breathes. There’s an unmistakable hardness just beneath his belt buckle. Patrick’s hips sway over it, compelled by their own magnetic force. His own dick answers, a thick, nervy throb.

“So,” Patrick says, pressing his mouth to the hollow of Pete’s throat. It smells just as good as he’d imagined, dark and spiced, honey and sunshine and lazy afternoon sex. “I’m getting divorced, if you must know. Just waiting on the decree absolute, actually. Caught him fucking his assistant in my office and that was the end of that.” Control returns to Patrick’s tingly hands and he runs the back of his knuckles along the length of Pete’s cock, kissing away the messy groan Pete looses. “I’m free to fuck whoever I want. Without guilt. Without being the arsehole. With total impunity.”

“God,” Pete moans, his head tipping back against the brickwork.

The hardness under Patrick’s knuckles seems to throb—God, Patrick wants to get his mouth on that great, gorgeous thing. Patrick starts to fold, a controlled explosion at the knees, desperate, thirsting, needing. “You can fuck my mouth,” he murmurs, mouth against Pete’s pulse, mopping up the answering groan with his tongue. “Pull my hair. Whatever you want, ‘s’all fine with me.”

The jeans have got to go. Patrick gets on his knees and presses his face to Pete’s cock, feels it full-to-bursting against his cheek. He looks up through his lashes, gets the tag of Pete’s zip between his teeth and—

“Stop,” Pete gasps. It’s not the sexiest thing Patrick’s ever heard pre-blowjob, not if he’s being honest. There are words that would make him hornier. “You have to—stop.”

Before Patrick can verbalise his disappointment, though, Pete’s grabbing him under the arms like a toddler (seriously, also unsexy) and pinning him back against the wall (slightly sexier, admittedly). He kisses Patrick’s mouth and his throat, his chest and the quivering round of Patrick’s belly, which Patrick sucks in, then gives up when Pete shoves up his shirt to mouth at his hip.

“Off,” Pete says, tugging at the waist of Patrick’s jeans and briefs. Patrick makes a frankly ridiculous noise and cants his hips and Pete’s fingers hook under the elastic and then Patrick’s cock is out, jutting into the sharp chill of the October air, pink and thick and already wet at the tip. “Fuck,” Pete murmurs, sounding hot and needy and… yes, fond. His tongue catches the sensitive ridge of the head in a fiery lick. Patrick possibly breaks the mortal bounds of his own body. “Very nice,” Pete says. 

And Patrick slides into the slick heat of Pete’s mouth.

Patrick tries to go slow, really he does, but Pete’s mouth is an eager, clever thing. He swallows Patrick down into his throat and grips Patrick’s hips and sucks like he’s taken in poison and Patrick’s cock contains the antidote. Patrick wants it to last, but no one’s sucked him off like this in years—this willingly, this desperately, this needy for the taste of his come—no one’s sucked him off like this _ever,_ maybe, and he’s going to, he’s going to—

“I’m,” he gasps out, nails sinking into the back of Pete’s neck and holding him still, “I’m. I’m.”

Pete moans, a delicious rumble through Patrick’s dorsal vein, his eyes wide and watering, his mouth stretched white at the corners and Patrick gives up to the inevitability of it and lets go. He comes blind. He comes hard and throbbing and spilling into Pete’s mouth, onto his chin, down the front of his lovely clean Metallica shirt. He comes looking into Pete’s eyes and seeing him smile through the mess of Patrick’s orgasm.

Pete climbs shakily to his feet and presses his mouth to the corner of Patrick’s. He tastes of come and sweat and smells of sexy-sharp spiciness. He’s trembling, all over. Patrick gets his fist down the front of Pete’s jeans and starts to stroke, sloppy and lacking in finesse.

“I’m sorry,” Patrick gasps, biting into his knuckles to stop himself from crying. “I—I wanted to—You should’ve let me—You know?”

“Patrick,” Pete murmurs, mouth against Patrick’s ear, hips chasing Patrick’s hand. 

“Pete,” Patrick murmurs. God, _Pete.”_

Pete shivers and locks up and comes with a tiny, desperate groan, all over Patrick’s hand and the leg of Patrick’s jeans. Gratifying and a little bit gross. He wraps his arms around Patrick and pulls him close. Patrick breathes in the smell of Pete’s jacket. “You are so lovely,” Pete tells him earnestly. “You’re just… you’re so, so lovely.”

In the dark courtyard, next to the bins, Patrick feels more real, wanted, _seen,_ than he has in—he thinks—ten years, eight months, and thirteen days.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just us again... if you're back again, or checking this out for the first time, thank you so much!

"Who're you texting," Brendon asks, barely looking up from his laptop. He types like it's a competition. He  _ talks _ like it's a competition. Patrick's probably losing. 

"Just my mum," Patrick lies. His phone screen is filled with a 1080p picture of Pete's dinner.  _ If you were a food, you'd be a sweet potato,  _ Pete's typed. Patrick bites down on his smile and for once, doesn't read into it. "She's asking how it's going." 

Brendon scoffs. He's sitting on top of the duvet in nothing but a pair of boxer shorts, his tattoos on display and his long, lean limbs crawling into Patrick's space. They're in-between shows, merrily forced into a Travelodge by producers who couldn't know any better than to book them a double room. When Brendon stretches, he pushes out his toned, waxed chest and catches Patrick in the head with his hand. The carpet is looking more and more comfortable. 

_ You'd be a chili pepper,  _ Patrick replies. He's not an experienced flirter, but he thinks he's getting the hang of it. 

_ Because I make your cheeks turn pink?  _ Pete's a heavyweight flirter. A grand-slam flirter. Patrick's cheeks do exactly what they're told and he cradles his phone in his hands as he tries to think of a response. 

"Your mum's a funny woman, is she?" Brendon remarks. When Patrick draws a blank, Brendon rolls his eyes. "Your mum. You said you were texting her." 

"Oh. Yes," Patrick nods, "yeah, she is. Bloody hilarious. Runs in the family." 

"Like obesity?" 

Patrick takes a long, slow breath through his nose and holds it tight in his throat, because he has to squeeze something and it can't, for legal reasons, be Brendon's throat. "Stop getting at me," he says. "Just—stop it." 

"I'm joking," Brendon says, but there's no trace of a smile in his eyes. "You take everything so seriously." 

"Fine," Patrick says, shoving the duvet away and striding into the bathroom. He sits, fully-clothed, on the toilet and breathes his way through the frustration. Contestants have dropped out before, due to work commitments or illness. This could be another of those times. He's got the producer's number on his phone—all it would take is the press of a button. He scrolls through his contacts until he sees her name. 

_ Kind of can't wait for tomorrow. _ Pete's text drops onto the screen and with it, a wave of shy excitement. Then,  _...is that clingy? Sorry, that was really clingy, right?? I sort of mean it, tho, ngl.  _

Patrick breathes deeply and leans back on the toilet. When he taps on the message, their conversation appears, from the first, nervous _hi_ to the bedtime selfie Pete sent. He's grinning, a pillow propped behind him and his hair wet. And, God, Patrick had almost forgotten what yearning felt like; it's a pulse in his chest, in the pit of his stomach, and it's potent. _So_ _lovely_ , Pete had said. Patrick hears it in his head like a lullaby. 

_ Can't wait either _ , Patrick types.  _ And I don't mind clingy.  _

Pete sends back a gif of two monkeys hugging and a laugh bubbles from Patrick's chest. He tries to remember a time when he and Brendon were like this, but he's pretty sure that if he dug out his old BlackBerry, all he'd find is grainy dick pics. The owner of said grainy dick bangs on the bathroom door. "You finished sulking? I need a piss." 

Patrick sighs and looks at the monkeys. "Be right out."  _ We could meet after the intros tomorrow? If you've got time,  _ he types. He needs that monkey cuddle. 

Brendon bangs on the door again.  _ Love to, _ Pete replies.  _ I know a place xx.  _

*

The place Pete knows, as it turns out, is a particular tree in a particular stretch of forest in the Surrey countryside. Patrick follows Pete's instructions—turns right out of the holiday cottage on Pete's parents' farm and heads across the ditch, following a thin path into the woods. It doesn't cross Patrick's mind that Pete might be a serial killer until he's lost in a brush of brambles that catch on his cardigan. No one would find his body.

Then, the voice of an out-of-breath Southerner drifts through the trees. "Hey!" it calls, and Patrick wades towards it to see Pete, phone in hand and picking his way through the undergrowth. "I tried calling."

Patrick squints at his phone. "No signal," he shrugs. It's the second time they've seen each other today—after Pete and his dad invited them through a charming little cottage, Pete gave them the tour of the two other charming little cottages that they also own. Patrick's hip still tingles with the touch of sympathy Pete gave him when he showed him and Brendon to yet another double bed. He'd managed to escape a few minutes later. "How long do we have?"

"'Til the next lot turn up," Pete says, "they're gonna ring me." He's within touching distance when his foot catches on a snarl of goosegrass and he lurches conveniently into Patrick's waiting arms. When he regains his balance, he's close, his hands on Patrick's wrists and his mouth falling into a dazed grin. "I meant to do that," he says.

"Oh, sure," Patrick grins. "'Course."

"Meant to do this, too," Pete breathes, and then he touches his mouth to Patrick's, catching his bottom lip in two brief, soft kisses. When he pulls away, a laugh rushes from Patrick's chest.

"Can't believe I'm snogging in a forest," he says, "feels—exciting."

"We can do more than snog," Pete purrs, his hands slipping to Patrick's waist. Then, he blinks rapidly. "If you want. Snogging is fine. Or—just talking, or not even talking, like, just  _ seeing  _ you is—"

"I'll blow you," Patrick says, "it's my turn."

Pete makes a noise like a punctured tyre and squeezes the extra paunch at Patrick's hip. This tells Patrick two things: one, that Pete's noticed he's a little chunkier than the average Grindr guy, and two, that it hasn't caused him to vomit uncontrollably. Both are fortunate. "Can't say no to that," Pete smiles, then drops a glance to the squash of mud beneath their feet. "Not here, though. Let's find somewhere dry."

As he's led back through the forest, Patrick begins to realise how low his standards are in comparison to Pete's—each time he prepares to drop to his knees, Pete declares the spot too wet, or dark, or ugly. When he eventually picks a space underneath a large oak tree, he scoops handfuls of dried leaves into a neat pile and presses them flat. Brendon never even changed the bed sheets.

"There," Pete says once he's finished nesting, "this should be comfy." He settles against the trunk of the oak and beckons Patrick until he's close enough to kiss, and Patrick falls down beside him with a crunch of autumn leaves beneath his knees.

They kiss each other breathless, Patrick makes sure of it; he slides a hand to Pete's crotch and squeezes, teases, until Pete undoes his jeans and Patrick's suddenly inside his boxers, pulling his cock into the open air and blinking at it in the daylight. He's never touched a cock that isn't Brendon's. It's nice, thick. When he looks up, Pete's staring at him like he's about to perform a miracle.

Patrick's good at blowjobs. He's not great at looking good naked, or bending himself into awkward positions, but he's good with his mouth, and he's determined to prove it. Pete props himself up on the tree's root and Patrick settles between his legs, leaning in to breathe the heat of Pete's crotch, to fit his mouth over the full, shining head of Pete's cock. He wants  _ time _ , time to undo Pete one stitch after another, to bring Pete to the edge and hold him there, but they're on a deadline and Pete wants an orgasm. Patrick waves theatrics goodbye and sinks onto Pete's cock.

"Fuck!" Pete yelps, his hands leaping to Patrick's hair and slipping through it. "Bloody hell."

Patrick smiles as best he can when pressed to Pete's pubic hair. He smells of sweat and soap and musk, and Patrick drinks it in long, even breaths as he slides to the tip of Pete's cock and laps at the head. When he chances a look up, Pete's face is pleasure-stricken and adoring. Brendon didn't like eye contact.

He turns back to Pete's cock and drags his lips along the shaft, pressing wet, firm kisses to the base and feeling a moan rumble through Pete's stomach. If nothing else, he wants Pete to remember this. If Pete's not planning on keeping him, if the only evidence of this encounter is the mud staining Patrick's knees, he wants Pete to look upon it with fondness.

But through the sweat and come and dirt, Patrick feels a cautious sweetness emerging. Pete's hands frame his face, not pulling or pushing, just holding, brushing through the too-long wisps of hair behind Patrick's ears. Whenever Patrick looks up, Pete's gazing at him, his mouth open and his breathing ragged. The sound of birds overhead and the rush of wind through the trees only makes it more romantic.

"God, I'm close," Pete says like he's overflowing, "I'm—fuck, keep going." And Patrick does, taking Pete to the back of his throat and swallowing until Pete's biting a shout into his knuckles. Patrick feels the moment he breaks, his cock twitching, spilling into Patrick's mouth, and Patrick sucks him gently through it, taking the last dregs of his orgasm over his nose and chin. Brendon tended to like that.

"Fuck," Pete's gasping above him. "Shit. Oh God, sorry," he flaps, rummaging about in his jacket until he finds a pack of tissues. Patrick gratefully takes one and wipes the mess from his face. "Sorry."

Before Patrick can tell him not to worry, Brendon did it all the time, Pete does something that Brendon never did any of the time and kisses Patrick full on the lips. Patrick crawls closer to him, fitting himself into Pete's lap and letting Pete's hands roam his body, groping at the throb of his cock until he groans. He's already tremendously, embarrassingly hard and it's not long before he's rocking his hips into Pete's hand and hiding his moans in the crook of Pete's neck.

"That was amazing," Pete whispers as he strokes slowly and deliberately over the length of Patrick's cock. "You're so good at that."

"Thanks," Patrick chokes out, and then he comes, into Pete's hand and over his jeans. "God, Pete."

" _ Love  _ the way you say Pete," Pete grins, keeping Patrick close as his eyes rake Patrick's face. They're still balanced on the root of the tree; when he stands to tuck his cock away, Pete slumps to softer ground and leans his head back against the trunk.

"We should probably get back," Patrick says, looking around as if Brendon might leap from behind a tree. Patrick wouldn't put it past him.

Pete checks his phone. "No missed calls," he shrugs. Then he pats the patch of ground beside him and opens his arms. "Don't suck and run, Stump."

_ Stump.  _ It makes him smile - he's been Stump-Urie for ten years. He settles beside Pete and Pete's arms pull him inwards, and suddenly his head is on Pete's chest and his hand is on Pete's heart. The cock in his mouth seemed less intimate.

"'S nice out here," Patrick says, looking up at the reddish canopy. "Peaceful. I'll give you a nine for Facilities."

Pete snorts. "You'd better. At  _ least  _ a nine."

"Only a five for cleanliness, though."

"Fuck you," Pete laughs, and Patrick hears the breath through his chest.

"I'd like you to, at some point," Patrick says. "But I reckon Brendon might notice if I go running into the woods in the dead of night."

Pete waves a hand. Then, he says possibly the two most reassuring words in the English language: "No rush." Patrick can't help but kiss him.

*

“We’re going llama trekking!”

Patrick knows all those words. He does. He’s just never heard them strung together in that order. Llama trekking—What in the name of Catherine Zeta Jones is  _ llama trekking? _ He’s got memories of  _ pony  _ trekking, a Fun Family Event during a childhood holiday. Memories of a mealy-mouthed arsehole of a pony and the pain of pony teeth on his tender, twelve-year-old nipple. Memories of his older brother finding it fucking hilarious while Patrick bled his life’s blood onto his favourite Pokemon shirt. Memories he’s worked hard to suppress, thanks awfully. 

Patrick has—questions, about this whole misadventure. He has  _ concerns. _

Are llamas the ones that spit, or is that alpacas? Are they fundamentally the same thing? If llama trekking  _ is  _ like pony trekking, does that mean Patrick has to mount it like a bloody great beast of servitude? What’s the weight limit to scramble aboard and does he exceed it? Will the llama owner sue him if he crushes the poor thing to death?

While Pete runs through the basics, Patrick begins to sweat. Oh, bollocks, if he fucks this up Brendon will never let him hear the end of it. That’ll be it, a scratched record skipping over and over again, until the decree absolute releases the necessary funds for Patrick to run back home to Cardiff and never look back.

In all this white, sweaty panic, Patrick stops listening to the crucial information about the finer details that Pete and his dad are sharing with the group. That panics him, too. Cursed ADHD and its ruthless quest to render him absolutely useless in the face of information. So now, everyone else probably knows exactly how to llama trek and Patrick’s going to look even stupider. Patrick panics about listening, and panics about not listening, and generally ramps himself up into minor cardiac event. Still, there’ll probably be a Q&A at the end, and Patrick can pick it up then.

“Any questions?” Pete Sr says, like he can read minds. Given what Patrick’s mouth was filled with an hour ago, he hopes with a fervour inseparable from religion that this isn’t the case.

Patrick begins to raise his hand. He brims with questions, bubbling up his throat like a Starbucks milk frother. But Brendon swats his hand down, his mouth curdled into a big, fake smile. 

“Whatever you’re going to say,” he hisses, elbow jammed into the tender point between Patrick’s fourth and fifth ribs, “keep it to yourself. You embarrassed me enough at the zipline, you’re not doing it again.”

Patrick’s hand drops as if made of lead. He shoves it down into the pockets of the tactical jacket that looked alright on the Topman website but looks stupid lashed across Patrick’s stubby collection of mismatched limbs and body parts. To his Velcro shoes, he says, “I was only going to ask if we sit on the llamas, wasn’t I? You don’t have to be an insufferable prick about it.”

“A prick?” Brendon asks, still smiling. His eyes stay fixed ahead and he doesn’t answer Patrick’s question about the llamas. “A prick wouldn’t try to protect you from yourself, would they? You’re turning into the Episode Bore, Patrick. Remember Raymond—The Black Bull, September 2013? Remember how everyone on twitter laughed at him? They’ll call you Gaymond, you know. You’ve already got so much stacked against you—No need to make it even easier for the competition, is there?”

Patrick contemplates the extreme order of sadness of someone who mentally catalogues Four in a Bed episodes. He’s so irked, he doesn’t stop to think before he speaks. “Wind your neck in, mood hoover. Who d’you think’s watching us, exactly? Simon sodding Cowell? We’re on Four in a Bed, not Bakeoff. Not being funny, mush, but no one gives a single bloody shit.”

They’ve definitely attracted the attention of at least one cameraman, who tracks them from the other side of the group. They make a terrible couple but it’s obvious to Channel 4 that they’ll make fantastic television. Patrick’s inspired; buoyed up on the same nameless bravery that made him offer to suck Pete’s dick in the forest. He’s on fire today, burning with confidence. If Patrick’s made it through a decade of marriage to Brendon, he’s unstoppable. If Patrick can live through this, well. He can do  _ anything. _

A sexually awakened idiot, Patrick looks directly at Pete. 

“Oh, God,” Brendon says. “Stop  _ staring  _ at him, would you? He’s going to wind up with an injunction if you keep looking at him like he’s the Krispy Kreme counter in Tesco. It’s embarrassing—I’m embarrassed for you.”

Patrick feels his face heat horribly. “Look at who?” he says, the words slithering out of his mouth. “Pete? I’m not looking at Pete. I’m not looking at  _ anyone.” _

Brendon’s mouth opens—all the better to verbally beat you with—but before he can say something horrible, Patrick’s elbow is seized in the liver-spotted grip of an septuagenarian lesbian. “Patrick, darling,” says Beryl, a superhero in sensible birkenstocks. “You’re just the man I’m looking for. And trust me, that’s not a sentence I say very often.”

“Oh,” Patrick says. “Hello, love.”

“When we went out for dinner in Whitby, did I hear you say that you run the website for your hotel?” she goes on. 

Like a shark, Brendon circles closer. “Actually—”

“Yes,” Patrick says, before Brendon can say anything else. “I run the website. Updates, bookings, calendar, all that stuff. That’s me. I do all that and all the rest that goes with it. Brendon picked the curtains, though. And the bedspreads.  _ Proper  _ helpful, that was.”

Brendon’s glare moves through all noted threat levels from moderate to critical. Patrick smiles at him, showing teeth, daring Brendon to argue, to contradict, to lie in front of God and Beryl. The unborn potential of yet another fight—public this time—crackles in the air. They face off, Brendon’s shoulders squared and Patrick’s chin jutted in defiance, as if readied for the hangman’s noose. The cameraman hurries closer, flanked by boom mic, nudging Gee to one side.

Brendon notices—or else: Brendon never stopped noticing the camera. Patrick knows which one is more likely, but either way, Brendon backs down. His shoulders drop, his smile blooms, he punches Patrick on the shoulder a tad too hard to be encouraging.

“Patrick’s passable with that stuff,” Brendon says. Then he adds, “Makes up for all his many shortcomings,” and walks away, both hands in his pockets.

“Well,” Beryl says. “How charming.” Patrick searches Beryl’s face for pity and is grateful to find none. Instead, she takes him by the elbow and steers him toward the waiting minibus. “Sit with Ivy and I on the bus. We need to pick your brain. We’ve been thinking about updating our website...”

Patrick sits at the back of the bus, with Ivy and Beryl and Pete, who worms his way into the seat next to Patrick like a spaniel. They don’t touch, their hands glued to their knees as if compelled by magnetic force. Two seats in front, Gerard and Frank engage Pete’s dad in rigorous discussion of the historical significance of the local churches.

Brendon sits behind the driver, impassive in his sunglasses and leopard print Thom Browne coat. Alone.

*

They walk the llamas, in actual fact. On leads, through the Surrey countryside, like enormous shaggy dogs. Surrey’s different to Wales, it rolls outward. Waves of green and gold all the way to the horizon. Wales rises up, ragged and ancient grey, it boxes in and protects from invasion and wicked rule. Patrick should’ve known better than to leave for university, really. Nothing good ever came from taking the M4 into London. 

Now they’re off the bus, he feels a lot less brave and a lot more sad. Pete’s barely looked at him since they arrived at the trekking centre, much less dragged him off for a cheeky grope behind the bushes. Realistically, this is because Pete is busy standing in front of the camera looking quixotic and handsome and eminently fuckable. He has a llama in each hand, like a bloody great show off, and still manages to be the single most attractive human being Patrick’s ever seen in real life _. _

Pete hasn’t found a reason for them to walk together. And Patrick  _ so wants _ him to find a reason for them to walk together. Without proximity, Patrick’s starting to analyse Pete’s use of the words ‘no rush’ and all the terrifying, terrible things it could mean.  _ No rush to do that again. No rush to see you without all your clothes, ta very much. No rush to watch you wobble your sweaty way through intimate penetration. _ Much more likely. God, the horror of it all. Patrick clamps his lip between his teeth and chomps until he tastes blood, not trace evidence of Pete’s still-recent orgasm. 

Without Pete to walk with, Patrick’s forced to walk with Brendon. This is horrible on a number of levels, not least because… well. It’s Brendon, isn’t it? And Patrick doesn’t like walking with him at the best of times. It’s even worse with Brendon verbally assaulting his truculent lamoid companion.

“Come on, you fat little shit, move your flabby arse,” Brendon snarls. Fuck. Patrick’s heard  _ that  _ before. If this is what the denizens of their local Tesco Metro have had to listen to for the past five years, Patrick suspects he should publicly apologise. On Twitter, maybe. Or Facebook. What’s the procedure in this situation?

“Have you tried offering him a treat?” Patrick says. “That’s what the bloke at the centre said. Makes them bond with you, apparently.” 

“Food motivated? No wonder you’re getting on like a house on fire,” Brendon snaps. He rummages in his pocket and comes up with nothing more than a handful of credit card receipts and a vape pen. “I don’t have any treats.” He says this like it’s Patrick’s fault. 

“No, you don’t,” Patrick agrees. “You didn’t pick any up, did you? That’s why you don’t have any.”

Brendon’s rage grows visibly, like the high-speed footage of spreading fungi on a nature documentary. “Fuck. Where can I get treats?”

Patrick scratches his llama behind the ears. Her name is Frosty, and she looks at Brendon with undisguised malice. “At this point?” Patrick asks. “In steaming piles of llama shit, I should imagine.”

“Give me some.” Brendon holds out his hand. It’s clear he doesn’t expect Patrick to argue. In honesty, Patrick doesn’t expect to argue, either. “Come on. Hand them over.”

“No.” Patrick looks at Brendon in his fluffy coat, designer sunnies, ridiculous shoes, and a tidal wave of learned compliance just about fucking bowls him over. Patrick hedges, hating the shake in his voice. “I—You should’ve picked some up yourself. These are for Frosty.” 

“Now, tubs!” Brendon barks. He thrusts his hand forward, breaching the Personal Space Guidelines they discussed—At length!—on the drive from London to Surrey. “Or are you planning on eating them yourself?” 

Patrick winces so hard he risks dental fractures. The others are far enough ahead that they won’t hear if Brendon keeps his voice below a dull shriek, but they’ve started to attract the attention of the production crew, all of them staring at the clusterfuck unfolding. Patrick’s cheeks prickle with blood. He wishes he was not in the middle of a forest in Surrey, clutching a llama, with no friends at all to his name. Patrick would like to be somewhere else. Like, absolutely  _ anywhere  _ else. He’d take Barry beach on a Thursday afternoon in February over this. 

“You shouldn’t speak to me like that,” he says stiffly. As if the llama leash is an umbilical cord and Frosty is sucking up the bad vibes by osmosis, she, too, plants her feet. (Hooves? Do llamas have hooves or are they cloven? Is now the time to worry about the details of llama feet?) “The mediator said—”

_ “The mediator said,” _ Brendon mimics, in a poor attempt at Patrick’s accent. Patrick bites his lip so hard he tastes  _ purple. _ “The mediator said you were frigid, didn’t he? He said you’d let yourself go. He said—”

“He didn’t,” Patrick insists, but he doesn’t sound like he believes it. He thinks he might puke, now he’s thinking about it, his mouth thick with coppery taste. All over Brendon’s expensive shoes, hopefully. “That’s not what he said—”

“Fat, frigid, balding. What a catch—”

“Stop it,” Patrick begs, fighting the urge to cover his ears. “Please, just take the treats, I don’t—”

“Shut up.” Brendon’s mouth is inches from Patrick’s, foamy with rage. He’s close enough that when he speaks, he flecks Patrick’s cheeks with fine drops of spittle. He jabs his finger into Patrick’s chest with every word, as if to drive them home, as if Patrick won’t feel them unless Brendon pushes them into the skin above his heart. Without thinking, Patrick looks at Pete. 

“You don’t learn, do you?” Brendon sneers, following Patrick’s look. “Someone like Pete, he’s not interested in someone like  _ you.  _ Not unless you’re on your knees for him, anyway. That’s the thing about men like you, isn’t it? Only happy when your mouth’s full. Do you know what your problem is?”

Patrick doesn’t care what Brendon says anymore. Why would he? They’re just words—the contraction of lips, throat, tongue, vocal cords—they can’t  _ hurt _ him. Patrick tells himself this, even though he doesn’t believe it. Panting for breath, he listens to the dull roar of his pulse in his ears and bites down on his throbbing lip, the lip Pete kissed, the lip Pete touched.  _ No rush.  _

“Please,” Patrick says again, weak. “Please, just leave me alone. This is—they’re going to  _ film  _ this.”

“Look at me,” Brendon says, softly. 

Patrick does: reluctantly, knowing it’ll hurt. He opens his eyes and meets his own reflection in Brendon’s sunglasses. Small, flushed, prone to sweating, unloved and unlovable. Patrick cringes away, or tries to, until Brendon cups his chin and turns his face back, but he can’t make Patrick open his eyes. He can’t, he  _ can’t.  _

“You piece of shit,” Brendon says, too soft, almost tender. “You are the most—What the  _ fuck?” _

Patrick opens his eyes, compelled by the ferocity of Brendon’s roar. Thick, dripping ooze goops along his nose, slides onto his lips, splatters the lenses of his sunnies. Patrick fancies Frosty looks  _ smug.  _

So... It turns out? Llamas  _ are  _ the ones that spit. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the election stress. Can we offer you a distraction?

Pete’s pretty sure Patrick’s avoiding him. He begins to gather data.

Fact: After Llamagate, he tries to engineer it so they can walk back to the trekking centre together. But Patrick rushes off with Frank and Gerard and Pete’s stuck with a dripping, furious Brendon and his dad, who gets all hearty and never-mind-old-boy-ish. They both ditch their companion animal. Pete, like some kind of modern-day Doctor Doolittle, ends up with four llamas and the feeling he’s done something wrong.

Fact: On the minibus, Patrick sits with Beryl and Ivy again but this time he kicks his feet up onto the seat. Pete stands there for a moment or two looking hopeful and pathetic and thinking it must be some kind of mistake. He tries clearing his throat, but Patrick ignores him and starts teaching his new best friends how to pronounce Llanfairpwll-gwyngyllgogerychwyrndrob-llantysiliogogogoch. Pete is gogogoch-blocked.

Fact: When Pete asks if he pronounces it llama, with a soft _l,_ or with a Welsh lateral fricative, Patrick doesn’t smile. Doesn’t even look up. That’s peak humour, as far as Pete’s concerned. It deserves at least a half-arsed chuckle. 

Conclusion: Patrick’s definitely ignoring him and Pete doesn’t know what to do about it.

It hurts; more than he’d like it to, more than he _expects_ it to. They’ve only known each other a couple of days but Pete was serious under the spread of the oak tree in the forest. When he said _no rush,_ what he meant was _we have all the time in the world to find our song and our favourite restaurant and so why rush_ this _?_ He meant _love is kind of tricky, but we’ll figure it out if we have each other._

He wants to be old-fashioned with Patrick. To woo him and take his time. Maybe he’s reading things all wrong, but he thought that might be reciprocated. Snuggling is for lovers, that’s just a fact. There are Rules and Protocols when it comes to these things and he’s going to be pretty fucking annoyed if Patrick’s broken them. Pete sits at the front of the bus with his phone and broods like Byron before him. 

“I’m sorry he keeps staring at you.”

Pete blinks. Brendon is closer than he was when Pete zoned out and edging nearer, leaning over the gap between their seats. Listen closely, you might just hear the da- _da..._ da- _da..._ of The Shark Approaches. 

Pete struggles upright. “Um… What?”

“My husband. Handsome bloke like you, I expect he’s got a bit of a crush. I apologise if he’s making you feel uncomfortable,” Brendon says. His grin is big and toothy, his respect for personal space nonexistent. Every hair on the nape of Pete’s nape prickles. Like all good prey animals, he goes still. 

“He’s not,” Pete says, the truest thing he can allow himself to say. “He’s nice… sweet, even. You’re a very lucky man.”

“Me? Lucky? If you say so, mate. Look, you don’t have to be nice about him, just because I’m his husband.”

“He is, though,” Pete says loyally. “He’s… lovely.”

Brendon throws back his head and laughs, like this is a joke and Pete is in on it. Pete’s never thought much about marriage before—the horrifying heteronormativity of it, the symbolic removal of personal freedom, the _weird_ last name thing—but, imagine for a moment. Imagine asking someone as lovely as Patrick to spend the rest of his life with you. Imagine him saying yes, agreeing to forsake all others until _death._ The beauty of it! The poetry! Imagine doing that while being as _awful_ as Brendon. Imagine cheating, and lying, and initiating the divorce and _still_ thinking you’ve won when the person you’re losing is... _Patrick._

Pete’s smile curdles. He resists the urge to drop eye contact. “Well, I think he’s smashing. I really do.”

“Seriously though,” Brendon says. “If he’s being creepy, just let me know. I’ll sort it out.”

“He’s not being creepy, he’s—”

“Nice, yes. Honestly, it’s no trouble at all, I’m used to it.”

“It’s not a problem, please could you just—”

“It’s not the first time he’s made someone uncomfortable.”

“I don’t know how else to tell you that Patrick’s not some kind of predator.”

“Oh, not a predator. Just gets a touch of puppy love now and again, easily sorted.”

“Please, this is totally unnecessary. I don’t want to spoil the rest of filming with— _weirdness.”_

“Okay, enough about silly old Patrick,” Brendon purrs. “We’ve barely got to know one another at all, have we?”

He leans closer and rests a hand on Pete’s forearm. Pete stares down at it. The look on Brendon’s face suggests that Pete is supposed to find this arousing. Instead, Pete’s horrified. There are no mortal bounds to his disgust. If Brendon thinks denigrating the good name of his husband is foreplay, what the hell is he capable of behind closed doors? This speaks of something too awful for Pete to contemplate. Pete looks at Brendon’s hand on his arm and feels his skin crawl from the point of contact outward, the thick platinum band on Brendon’s ring finger a burning epicentre.

“I don’t know what you’re implying, but I want to make it clear that I’m not interested in shagging married men,” Pete says. 

Which is a lie, because he’s very interested in shagging Patrick, who is also a married man, technically. But Patrick’s married to Brendon and Brendon is an arsehole and Patrick can do _so much better,_ like, Patrick could marry _Pete_ one day, and Pete’s a huge improvement on terrible, vicious Brendon.

Brendon glares at Pete and Pete smiles back and tucks his headphones into his ears and says, “Good day, sir,” like an Edwardian gentleman.

The way Pete sees it is this: he and Patrick are matching pieces in the same puzzle, Patrick just needs to step back and see the bigger picture. Pete muses. He’s going to get Patrick alone and talking to him again if it kills him. Just see if he doesn’t.

*

“Step into my office.”

Patrick eyes Pete’s car and doesn’t say anything for a long time. Long enough that Pete starts to feel nervous. Long enough that Pete starts to worry that someone's going to look out one of the many windows overlooking the central yard and see them standing together, staring at a Land Rover. Suspicions will be raised. There are virtues at stake. 

“Why?” Patrick asks, slowly, tugging it over eighteen syllables and a metric ton of dour-faced suspicion.

“Er,” Pete says. “I thought we could go for a drive? If it makes you feel any better, I promise I hold a full and valid UK driving licence with, like, no _significant_ infractions. And the ones I do have—well. That hedge came out of nowhere.”

Patrick doesn’t say no, but he doesn’t say yes or… move, either. The romantic gesture begins to feel like a poorly-staged kidnapping. 

Pete’s parents own three cottages, all of them currently occupied, one of them by Patrick’s husband. The main house has Pete’s bedroom, a tiny space tucked into the eaves directly over the living room where his parents are watching Countdown. There are nine bedrooms, five living rooms, four kitchens and a formal dining room close enough to touch, and none of them are available for smooching. There aren’t a lot of options, as far as private places go. It’s basically this or the garden shed.

Pete doesn’t care. He’s in this for the time-with-Patrick. Not to be dramatic, but he might die if he doesn’t hold a conversation with Patrick, tonight, that doesn’t revolve around thread counts, or roll top bathtubs, or the fucking _importance_ of a full English breakfast. 

“Where does Brendon think you are?” he asks. 

“Calling my mum,” Patrick shrugs. 

“I told dad I’m nipping out for cigarettes,” Pete says, pressing his hand to the small of Patrick’s back. “Sainsbo’s is fifteen minutes away. We’ve got forty-five minutes before _my_ mum sends out a search party and I’d like to spend it with you.”

Patrick peers into the back of the car. “If this is some kind of scheme to tick _sex in a car_ off your bucket list…”

“It’s not about car sex.”

“Murder, then.”

“Come on, if I wanted to murder you, I’d’ve done it in the forest. Don’t you watch CSI? You’d leave forensic evidence _all over_ my car.”

“If you’re planning on holding me to ransom, I don’t think my mum—”

“You know, if we’re going to work out, we really need to work on this whole… shrill suspicion thing you have going on around me,” Pete says. He climbs into the driver’s seat, leaning over to unlock the passenger door and beckon Patrick inside. “Besides, I’ve already had sex in a car. Overrated. I thought his dick was at a funny angle—turned out I was trying to mount the gear stick. Hop in.”

Patrick looks at Pete and Pete looks back, unblinking. He holds eye contact like a scalding coffee cup; it stings and throbs but he will not let go. If Pete’s not in love yet, he’s close enough that the distinction between falling and landing are blurred. For the first time in his life, someone has the capacity to hurt him— _really_ hurt him—and Pete has no idea if he’s Aladdin or Icarus. He bites his lip until it throbs, grips the steering wheel in his sweaty palms and wills Patrick to do something. 

“Fine,” Patrick says, scrambling into the passenger seat. Pete has a small, celebratory aneurysm. “Where are we going? Does Surrey have a known murder spot?”

Pete’s doing a terrible job of wooing Patrick. That, or Patrick does not wish to be wooed. 

“It’s a surprise,” Pete says. 

He reaches out to pet Patrick’s thigh but stops halfway, because that looks a bit sex pervert-y. Like, he’s making a lot of assumptions about Patrick’s desire to have his thigh petted, when Patrick’s been giving him pretty strong Back Off, Weirdo signals for most of the afternoon. His hand hovers awkwardly over the handbrake until he settles on a brief and heterosexual knee pat. Not that Pete’s an expert on the friendship rituals of heterosexual men, but all the heterosexual men he’s ever met would _love_ to have their knee patted by an ex Chelsea striker. 

“Um. You don’t have to come if you really don’t want to, you know?” he says, pulling out of the yard and onto the road, BBC Radio 2 in the background. God, Radio 2. He used to own a _nightclub,_ and now he’s listening to Jo Whiley and the fucking _book club._

“It’s fine,” Patrick says.

“Fine?” Pete echoes. “Okay, but… I don’t want to, you know, bully you into it.”

Patrick huffs. “I said it’s fine, didn’t I?”

“Um,” Pete starts, “have I… done something wrong?”

“No,” Patrick says, folding his arms defensively. “The world doesn’t revolve around, you know. You’re not in the bloody Premier League now, mush. And I wouldn’t’ve kissed your arse for it even when you were.”

“Okay, that’s a bit personal, don’t you think?”

“Well I barely know you—why d’you suppose you’re capable of influencing my moods?” 

Pete blinks, a tiny bit hurt. “Okay, it’s just if I _have—”_

“No! You haven’t done anything!”

“You can tell me. If I have, I mean. I can’t say sorry if I don’t know, can I?”

Patrick doesn’t answer, quelle sur-bloody-prise, but he does fiddle with the radio until he finds a jazz station. There is a small, but persistent, knot of irritation in Pete’s stomach that blooms into a hurricane of misdirected fury when Patrick taps the button in the centre of the stereo and overwrites Radio 2 in favour of Middle-Aged FM. Pete’s heart’s been in his throat for most of the afternoon. He has no idea which way is up. He’s met the kindest, sweetest man—his literal _soulmate,_ probably—buggered it up without realising and spent the afternoon consigned to the conversational naughty step. He’s not in the mood to have someone fiddle with his bloody presets. 

“Do you have to do that right now?” he asks, irritated but trying not to show it. 

Patrick shrugs in the dark. “Whatever,” he says, knocking the radio off completely and staring off into the middle distance. 

Pete’s never been good with silence—ask anyone, anyone who knows him even a little bit—but this is a Victorian asylum sort of psychological torture. It’s not fair. Pete’s never claimed to be the most wonderful guy in the world, but he’s decent, and if Patrick’s changed his mind he deserves a half-decent Dear John speech. 

“Okay, what the hell have I done wrong?” he says, a tiny bit louder than he wanted to. “Seriously, what the bloody _hell?”_

Patrick looks at him, confused, but he’s got nothing on how Pete feels right now. At some point in the last 3.4 seconds, he’s come to a halt in a tiny layby on the dark lane that leads to his parents’ house in the middle of nowhere. It looks quite murdery, to be honest. Plus, Pete’s… not shouting, not exactly _shouting,_ but he’s raising his voice and Patrick is cowering back into the passenger door and suddenly everything thunks into place, each pin of a lock clicking, one by one. He raises his hand to touch Patrick’s arm, to reassure Patrick he’s a bit of a pillock, but he’s not a monster. 

Patrick flinches. “Don’t!”

Pete snatches his hand back into his lap and stares at his fingers, knotting them one over the other and back again. He has a horrible feeling there’s a Brendon-shaped answer to every single hangup, issue, and problem in Patrick’s life. His voice is terrifying and level as he says, “If he hit you, like, at all, ever, I will fucking kill him.”

Patrick doesn’t say anything, or else, Patrick does, but Pete doesn’t hear it over the hum of his pulse in his ears. If Brendon has hurt Patrick, Pete will kill him. Pete will tear him limb from bloody limb. Pete will snarl and shred and bite until there is absolutely nothing left, and then he will burn the fucking ashes. Pete will—

“Pete, please, stop it,” Patrick begs, his hands clamped over his ears. 

—oh. Pete can’t hear what Patrick’s saying because he’s ranting. Because he’s saying all this out loud, driving the heel of his hand into the edge of the steering wheel harder and harder and—oh. He’s terrifying Patrick, probably. He stops, bites his lip, forces the cork back down and caps off this tide of white-hot fury. Later, he decides. He’ll process it later, and punch a wall or two until his knuckles bleed. Right now, he turns to Patrick and says, as gently as he can, “I’m sorry. I just—He didn’t, did he? He didn’t, um… He didn’t _hit_ you?”

Patrick shakes his head. “Not in the way you’re imagining, no. He just…” Patrick stops, takes a quick breath and huffs out a laugh that’s sad and dry. “It doesn’t matter. I’m not very interesting, I swear.”

On this, they will never agree. There is nothing about Patrick—not a tiny thing—that Pete doesn’t find interesting. He wants to know _everything,_ to flip through him like a reference book and catalogue the chapters and footnotes. He wants to absorb Patrick, to work out all the ways they connect, and all the ways they don’t. Those are connections too, really, because who wants to be with their emotional clone, anyway? Pete doesn’t touch Patrick, although he aches to take his hand, or touch his shoulder, but he does clear his throat and, when Patrick looks at him, he speaks. 

“It does matter, and you’re, um. Well, you’re the most interesting person I’ve ever met, and I’ve met Graham Norton _and_ Stephen Fry, so I don’t make that claim lightly. Just…” Pete pauses and rubs his chin, feels his stubble under his fingertips. “I think you might feel better, if you talk about it. And I promise I won’t chin him in front of the cameras.” Patrick gives him a significant look. “Okay, fine, I won’t chin him _ever._ God. You’re such a spoilsport. But, seriously. Sharing’s caring and all that.”

Patrick glares through the windscreen for a second or two and Pete has no idea if he’s angry at Pete, or Brendon, or the sheep watching them from just beyond the gate. He doesn’t like not knowing, hates that he can’t just figure Patrick out like a tricky penalty, or a club promotion. Pete copes better if he knows how the people around him are feeling at all times, it makes it easier to measure his own mood, to slide himself into the roadmap of their emotional terrain. He decides it’s easier all round if he thinks it’s the sheep. It’s a shifty-looking sheep, after all. Pete doesn’t trust it, either. 

“He used to talk me into things I didn’t want to do,” Patrick says, just as Pete’s about to ask him if he thinks the sheep is _actually_ staring at them, or if he’s imagining it. Pete looks at him across the centre console and he’s curled up in the passenger seat, making himself small and insignificant. 

Pete decides to bite the conversational bullet. “What kind of things?” 

Patrick frowns into the footwell. “Just—sex stuff. Spitting and spanking and whatever. I didn’t always, like, _hate_ it, but it got to the point where it was all he wanted, and I was frigid if I didn’t want to, so…” he waves a hand as if it’s nothing, not worth talking about. “Sorry, this is probably too much information.” 

“No,” Pete says, staring into the vignette of his headlights and trying not to think of them, together, doing things like _that._ Patrick talks as if it’s normal, but to Pete, the slope between sexual fantasy and physical abuse seems oil-slick. “Not at all. Keep talking, if you want.” 

“There’s not much more to say,” Patrick shrugs. “He fucked me like he hated me. Turned out he actually did.” 

Pete’s not qualified for this. Communication as a footballer extended little beyond ape-like grunts across a football pitch and mono-syllabic post-game interviews. “I’m sorry,” he says, like he did after he missed that penalty against Man City. 

It’s been a few minutes since Patrick last looked anywhere but towards his own feet. His soft mouth is pressed rigid and his lovely shoulders are hunched, tense, his body pressed up against the passenger door as if he’s pining for an escape. Pete’s beginning to feel like a colossal, blundering idiot—not only did he bundle this fragile man into his car, but he proceeded to rant at him for not showering him in affection. 

“Do you want me to back off,” he says quietly. If the answer is _yes,_ he’ll quietly drive them home, and after a little cry into his pillow, never mention any of this again. 

Patrick waits _just_ long enough to bring a lump of panic to Pete’s throat before he says, “No.” He doesn’t sound very convinced. His hand slips over his face and he shakes his head, his fine hair waving in the stream of hot air from the dashboard. “God, I don’t know. He knows I like you. Hell, everyone knows. He told me you’d only want me for my mouth, and after what we did earlier…” he spreads his pale hands in front of him, “I had trouble brushing it off.” 

“But—we cuddled?” Pete blurts, “we had a nice time, how could you think—” 

“I know,” Patrick interrupts, his voice firm and sure. “I _know_ that I enjoyed it, I _know_ he’s spouting rubbish, but this is what he _does_. He’s been doing it for the past decade, telling me I’m stupid, and, and fat, and ugly, that if I’m not willing to let him bloody tie me up and slap me about and call me his whore then I’m some kind of puritanical tight-arse. And when someone tells you that over and over again, _constantly_ , you can’t just ignore it. It starts to get mixed up with the truth. The fact that I know what he’s doing just makes me feel even fucking weaker.” 

He lets out a breath that steams the window. It’s probably the most Pete’s heard him talk in one go. Pete can’t think of anything to say, but he’s got a feeling that it’s not his words that really matter right now. 

Eventually, Patrick huffs a breath through flared nostrils and rakes his nails over his thighs. “Look. I just want you to understand what you’re signing up for. Brendon has, quite honestly, completely wrecked me.” 

He’s not crying. He doesn’t even have tears in his eyes. His face shows nothing but bloody-knuckled fury. Looking at him in the dim dashboard light, Pete doesn’t see a wreckage; he sees a survivor. 

“I think you’re lovely,” Pete says, leaning his head against the seat as he gazes at Patrick. “I’ll sign up for that.” 

Patrick’s eyes finally slide to Pete and a weak smile graces his lips. “Sorry,” he sighs, “I’m just not very good at flings.” 

Pete snorts a laugh. “Flings?” 

“Yeah. Like—quickies in the forest and weird late-night drives.” 

“Okay, let’s get one thing straight,” Pete says seriously, “you’re not being flung. I don’t just let random people suck me off in the South Downs, this isn’t Glastonbury. And _this,_ ” he gestures to the night, in general, “isn’t, like, a bonus dogging trip. I _like_ you. I missed you today. And I’ll miss you tomorrow. And once the cameras have gone and we’ve stopped, fucking, evaluating each other’s poached eggs, I’m still gonna be here.” 

Finally, Patrick smiles. It blossoms over his face, shy and fluttering, and Pete’s words ring true in his own chest. He shifts away from the window, close enough for Pete to kiss, if he wanted. The second Pete gets this man alone in a bedroom, he’s going to set a world record for most beautiful lovemaking. Not even the Guinness invigilator will spoil the mood. 

“Sorry for avoiding you,” Patrick says, and then he reaches a hand across the gearbox. Pete takes it carefully, smoothing his thumb over Patrick’s knuckles. 

Pete shrugs. “You can make it up to me. I want to see tens all round, tomorrow.”

Patrick raises an eyebrow. “If you wanted tens, you should’ve cleaned behind the sofa.” 

*

_“Right, shall we see what people thought?” Pete Sr says as they sit, in woefully matching shirts, at their kitchen table. Three black folders sit in front of them. Pete Sr. reaches for the first._

_“Hosting,” he reads, “we got a ten. That’s a relief. Cleanliness—also ten. They liked the bath too—ah, this must be Gerard and Frank, they were the only ones with a bath. We got a five for breakfast—a bit disappointing.”_

_Beside him, Pete shrugs. “We expected that. The cottages are meant to be self-catered, the breakfast hamper is a luxury, really.”_

_“Yeah. Do we think they’d like to stay again?” Pete Sr. says, turning the page. The word ‘yes’ is circled several times, and his face brightens. “Lovely.”_

_“Okay, let’s have a look at the next one.” Pete takes another folder from the pile and lets it fall open in front of him. The handwriting is cursive and barely legible. “Only a seven for facilities. Oh, and a five for sleep. Huh. They said the air conditioning is loud.”_

_“We’ll look into that,” Pete Sr. says. He doesn’t look committed to the idea. “I think this is Beryl and Ivy. That’s the oldest cottage, we’ve always had issues with heating.”_

_“They’d stay again, though,” Pete says as he turns the page, “ two yeses, that’s good.”_

_“Okay, so we know who this next one will be,” Pete Sr. says with a grimace, reaching for the final folder. “Brendon and Patrick. Wow, only a seven for hosting. Bit mean. Apparently we weren’t present enough.”_

_“Huh,” Pete says, his mouth twitching. “Interesting.”_

_“They’ve put they felt looked after, though.”_

_“I bet they did.”_

_“But the breakfast only got a four, and they gave us a five for cleanliness. Apparently—”_

_“I forgot to clean behind the sofa. My bad,” Pete says. He doesn’t look particularly remorseful._

_“D’you think they’ll stay again?” Pete Sr. asks as he turns the page. The word ‘no’ is circled. Pete Sr. flips the folder shut and folds his arms. Pete, on the other hand, doesn’t seem bothered at all. “Well. We’ll see what makes their place so perfect.”_

_“Yep,” Pete says. “Yes we will.”_


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Another week, another chapter. Congratulations to everyone who no longer has a melting candle of orange lard as president, you've given us all hope, and congratulations to Snitches and me for making it through another week of lockdown (the first week of lockdown. holy mother of god we've got three more) without either throwing our computers out of the window or throttling one another. 
> 
> Anyway, here's another chapter of our Daytime Telly Boys!

“Welcome to our humble abode,” is the first thing Brendon says when Mr. and Mr. Wentz shuffle over the threshold. The second thing Brendon says is muffled by his blue sequinned jacket, which yells “Vanity!” at the top of its silk-lined lungs, but Pete’s gaze slides over it, coming to rest on Patrick. When he smiles, Patrick sparkles. 

“Hi,” Pete says, dropping his bag at Brendon’s feet and drawing Patrick into a hug. Patrick breathes him in, feeling the press of Pete’s palms at his hips, his spine, his soul. 

“Hi,” Patrick chokes out when he finally pulls away. 

“Lovely place you’ve got here,” Pete says, gesturing at the high ceilings and meticulously dusted chandeliers. During Patrick’s eventual post-mortem, it’ll be found that his lungs are mostly Windolene. The array of cleaning products he’s used over the past few hours is so vast that Patrick’s pretty sure he could accurately recreate the Chernobyl nuclear disaster. Unfortunately, the producers decided whiskey tasting would make better telly. 

“Thanks,” Patrick smiles, watching the way Pete’s grin widens as he regards Patrick. The revelation that he’s made someone like  _ Pete  _ look quite so giddy hasn’t lost its novelty. 

Brendon emits a loud cough and the eyes return to him. “I’ll be taking you to your room,” he says with a sour smile, heaving Pete’s case off the floor with one arm and sweeping towards the staircase. Pete follows him, leaving Patrick with only the imprint of his hands and a whiff of his scent. 

“Nice jacket,” he tells Brendon as they mount the first stair.

“Versace,” Brendon boasts. 

“Bless you.” 

Patrick snorts, and then  _ aches,  _ because it’s  _ Brendon _ leading Pete to a bedroom. The cameras follow, and Patrick’s left praying he hasn’t forgotten to clean out the plughole. 

It’s not that Patrick’s invested in this place. He didn’t pick out the mahogany coffee tables or chequered tiles; he didn’t match the bedspreads to the curtains or the bog roll to the napkins. But he  _ did  _ polish the furniture, make the tiles gleam - he did change the bedspreads and wash the curtains and stock up the bog roll and the napkins. The only thing more obvious than Brendon’s money is Patrick’s graft. It’s not that he wants to win -  _ God,  _ he can’t think of anything worse to be known for - but it’s the only thing he has to offer Pete, to offer anyone. He doesn’t want stray pubes all over it. 

Brendon sees things differently. He’s the  _ worker  _ in the relationship, and Patrick’s just the butler, maid, cook, whore. He can picture it now - the scores, the compliments, the criticisms. Brendon will take credit and Patrick will take blame. If they get anything less than a ten for cleanliness, Brendon will poach Patrick’s testicles. Or, get Patrick to poach them. Brendon doesn’t cook. 

Officially, he’s moved out. He’s living in Maida Vale, or Kensington, or wherever Ryan keeps the handcuffs. Patrick had presumed, for a few, blissful hours, that Brendon may choose one of their six lovely, vacant rooms to occupy, and Patrick could  _ finally  _ offer Pete some privacy, a bed to sleep, fuck, cuddle in. Then Brendon took his suitcase straight to Patrick’s room and settled himself in, citing the cameras as his reasoning.  _ Can’t have them filming us going to separate rooms,  _ he’d said.  _ You take the futon.  _

“There was dust, on the doorframe,” Brendon calls as he trots down the spiral staircase. “I thought you said you’d cleaned it.”

“It’s barely been twenty-four hours since we got back, I couldn’t possibly have cleaned -“

“You spent three of those hours watching Lord of the Rings,” Brendon spits. “Have you prepped for tomorrow’s breakfast?”

“Not yet, no, but -“

“Fucking hell, Patrick.” Brendon says his name like it’s something he’d squash with a rolled up newspaper. “Get it together. If we don’t win this -“

“What? You’ll  _ what _ ? Divorce me?” Patrick says, and Brendon stops in his tracks. “Because, I’m not being funny, but you’re bloody lucky I’m even here right now.”

Brendon’s lip curls. Patrick waits for the pounce, the flash of sequins before Brendon finally throttles him, but it doesn’t come. Brendon is silent, seething. When he stalks away, something doesn’t sit quite right. 

*

He doesn’t see Pete until they’ve all gathered in the hotel bar. Brendon’s a whirlwind of smiles and welcomes. He’s a whirlwind, full stop; pretty, from a distance, until he gets too close and starts ripping out the furniture. Patrick keeps his back against the wall as he introduces the whiskey expert, a stern-looking Scottish lady with a suitcase full of booze. Patrick wonders if she’s hiring. 

The news that they will not be searching for ghosts, or hurling themselves from tall structures, or dragging weird animals around the countryside seems to go down quite well. Once an obligatory  _ cheers _ is over and done with, the group breaks up, half-listening to the woman talk about oaky depths and mahogany overtones and half talking amongst themselves. Beryl, Ivy and Pete Sr. have taken root in the fireside armchairs; Gerard and Frank are hovering behind them, their hands intertwined. Pete’s sitting by the bar - he gestures to the stool next to him. Patrick’s chest flutters and his cheeks heat. It’s getting ridiculous. 

It was the car ride that did it. Patrick presented Pete with so many opportunities to mock, to scathe, to dismiss, but Pete listened without judgement or expectation. Brendon would’ve expected at least a blowjob for that level of affection. Pete was happy with a peck on the cheek. Patrick’s fairly sure he’s in love with him, at this point. 

“Hey,” Pete says as Patrick clambers onto the bar stool, clinging to his sample of Talisker Skye. Still, Pete’s eyes trail over his squashed, plump frame like he’s Daniel Craig emerging from the ocean. “Can I buy you a drink?” 

Patrick giggles, raising his glass and taking a sip. The whiskey is warm, cosy on his tongue. If he doesn’t look at Brendon, he can pretend he’s out, flirting,  _ free _ . “Already done,” he says, licking his lips. He aims for coy, but he suspects he ends up somewhere near deranged. He can’t think of anything clever or sexy to say, so he plumps for boring, instead. “Do you like the room?” 

“‘Course,” Pete says. “Why? You gonna dump me if I give you a bad mark?” 

Patrick tries a laugh, but his brain is mostly occupied by the thought that if Pete does give him a bad mark, there won’t be anything left of Patrick  _ to  _ dump. “No,” he says, “no, no, of course not. It’s clean, though, right?” 

“Yeah, spotless,” Pete says, and then worry clouds his eyes. “Is it…” he jerks his head towards Brendon, lurking behind the armchairs. Patrick nods sharply, and Pete’s fingers grace his arm. “Honestly. Top marks, I promise. He’ll have nothing to whine about.” 

The decade-old, Brendon-induced knot in Patrick’s chest loosens. Pete has a wonderful way of making Patrick feel safer than he has in years. Patrick touches his hand before their fingers fall away for the cameras. 

After that, it’s a few stolen kisses away from being a date. They talk like lovers, pink-cheeked and whiskey-warm. Patrick’s supposed to be looking for earthy notes in the Lagavulin, but Pete’s exposed forearms prove more flavourful, and his spiralling tattoos provide an excellent excuse to trail his fingers over Pete’s skin. 

“I guess I just really like Nightmare Before Christmas,” Pete shrugs. “And  _ that  _ one was just stupid, really. I mean, they’re all stupid. Oh, lemme show you the  _ most  _ stupid…” 

Suddenly, Pete’s lifting his shirt, and Pete’s torso is just - there, in front of Patrick. He barely notices the tattoo, just the smooth, toned expanse of Pete’s stomach, begging to be touched, stroked, kissed. Patrick chokes on his whiskey.

“Very nice,” says someone who isn’t Patrick. Patrick smells Brendon’s obnoxious, piney cologne before he sees him; his hand lands on Patrick’s shoulder and squeezes, his nails digging into Patrick’s collarbone. 

“Can I help you?” Patrick says, looking up at Brendon’s strained, smiling face. 

“You rarely do,” Brendon replies, a sour smile stretching his mouth. “Kidding, of course. Everyone having a nice afternoon?” 

Gerard and Frank have stopped talking. For once, Brendon’s charm is tripping over itself. “Yep,” Pete says, dropping the hem of his shirt. “Great.” 

“Happy with your rooms?” 

“Yeah,” Pete says. “Really clean.” 

Brendon smiles broadly. “Good. Bit of elbow grease, is all it is.” 

“Whose elbow grease?” Frank interjects, shifting on the bar stool to tilt his head at Brendon. 

“What do you mean?” Brendon laughs. 

“Well - who cleans the rooms?” 

Brendon clears his throat and adjusts his shimmering armour. “Patrick tends to -” 

“Good job, Patrick,” Frank says, leaning to clap Patrick on the shoulder. “Spotless, our room is.” 

Patrick feels a rush of pride. “Thanks,” he says, chancing a glance towards Brendon. His fury is barely concealed. 

“Yes. Well, Patrick’s good at that kind of thing,” Brendon forces out. Patrick decides to take it as a compliment. 

“Thank you, dear,” he says sweetly, and Brendon’s hand slips from his shoulder. He flashes a false smile around the room and turns on his shined shoes, stalking away. Frank gives Patrick a wink. 

“I’m guessing you run the bar, too?” Gerard asks. 

Patrick squirms in his seat. “We have a few young people who do some weekend shifts but - but, yeah, I guess.” 

Gerard raises a glass of something light and golden. “Well - cheers.” 

Patrick grins, clinking both their glasses in turn and shifting back to face Pete, whose eyes smoulder. “Cheers,” Pete says. Patrick didn’t think one word could convey such adoration. 

*

The glow of the whiskey has faded by the time they’re back from dinner. It was some molecular gastronomy-type place, small plates and weird ingredients. Patrick’s still hungry. His belly rumbles as he stands in the small, too-bright hotel kitchen, laying strips of bacon across a baking tray. Part of him - the fat part, probably - wants to cook it all right now and eat it, just to see the look on Brendon’s face when he discovers Patrick tomorrow morning, fast asleep and covered in grease. Instead, he covers it in cling film. 

He’s attempting to calculate how much black pudding a party of six (with one vegan) might eat when someone coughs from the bar outside. “I’m doing it!” Patrick snaps, “I’m doing it right now!” 

“Whoa,” Pete says as he pokes his face into the kitchen. “Only me.” 

“Oh,” Patrick sighs, “I thought you were Bren. Finished the bedtime shots?” 

“Done and dusted,” Pete says absently, staring at the array of food in front of Patrick. “He’s being a bastard, huh?” 

Patrick weighs up Brendon’s Top Five Bastard Moments in his head, and shrugs. “Meh. He just wants it all perfect,” he says, sticking a date on a tray of hash browns. “Wants  _ me  _ to make it perfect. See if he can finish me off before he has to give me half his money.” 

“He’s not exactly hands-on, is he,” Pete frowns. 

“I dunno, he’s had his hands on a lot of other people,” Patrick says to the mushrooms as he slices their heads off. 

“Can I help?” Pete says, offering his own hands towards Patrick. Patrick wants them around him. “I can cut tomatoes?” 

“Already done,” Patrick replies, “but — thanks. I’m nearly finished, honestly.” 

Pete scurries across the kitchen and begins to ferry trays into the fridge. When he waits for Patrick to write the date stickers, he rests his hand on the small of Patrick’s back. It makes the experience vastly more bearable; but when everything is prepped and cleaned, all Patrick can think of is the cooking of it all, the heat, the pressure to deliver and Brendon, watching his every move. 

“Hey,” Pete says, his fingers dancing across Patrick’s forearms and curling around his hands. “It’ll be over, soon.” 

Patrick stares at a smudge on the floor and nods, trying to think of a life without Brendon. When Pete hugs him, it’s all he can do not to cry into Pete’s jumper. “Thanks,” he says quietly. 

It’s gentle, curious, when Pete begins to kiss him; soft touches of his lips and the slow reach of his tongue. He’s good with his hands, cupping Patrick’s face, tracing the curve of his hip, and for a moment, Patrick’s caught up in it, in Pete. 

“I gotta say,” Pete whispers, his breath falling over Patrick’s face, “keeping my hands off you tonight was, like, one of the hardest things I’ve had to do.” 

Patrick snorts. “Seriously?” 

“I haven’t had a very hard life,” Pete concedes, “but still. You looked fucking gorgeous.”

Patrick responds by pushing their lips together, his body pressed close and his mouth falling open for Pete.

“Do you want to, like - go upstairs?” Pete gasps, “My dad’s in our room but I’m hoping, maybe, you have a room?” 

“Yeah,” Patrick says, watching Pete’s face blossom into a smile, and then: “No. Shitting hell. Brendon’s in it.” 

Pete makes a desperate noise and paws at Patrick’s shirt. “What? Why?” 

“Because - he didn’t want to be seen going to a separate room. And - and the other rooms are locked, fuck, I think the key’s in my room, but I can’t get it ‘cause he’s there, and besides, they’re too close, he might hear. Hell, he might be down here right now,” Patrick babbles, throwing a glance towards the door. “If he catches us, I -” 

“Hey,” Pete soothes, “if we can’t find anywhere, it’s okay. We just — won’t have sex.” 

They catch each other’s eye for a split second. Patrick bites his lip. 

“Okay, think,” Pete says, “are there any rooms you can lock which aren’t near Brendon?” 

Patrick’s office is right underneath their bedroom. The bar is too open. The toilet is too small. Everywhere is too loud, too close, unless - “The cellar,” Patrick says. “I’ve got a key. Brendon never goes in there, it’s too dull.” 

“Perfect,” Pete says. He doesn’t look convinced. 

*

Pete’s had sex in some weird places over the years, but nowhere quite like the damp, ink-black murder hole behind the bar. Pete descends each step with the caution of a man expecting bear traps. When Patrick knocks on the light—a single overhead bulb—Pete wonders if it’s better to see it coming, or have Patrick take a hacksaw to his feet in the dark. 

He blinks, eyes adjusting to the light, and looks around. There’s not a lot to the tiny room at the bottom of the steep stone steps. Just four walls with creeping damp, beer barrels along one side, pallets along another. It’s cold, it’s wet, it smells strongly of yeast and, like, not to put a dampener on things but is that a thrush risk? No obvious horizontal surface on which to ravish Patrick to a gasping, sweaty mess. The good news is, this means there’s no obvious horizontal surface to serve as an impromptu torture rack. 

“Patrick?” Pete asks. “Answer me honestly—how many people have you murdered down here?”

“Three,” Patrick says. Then, he shrugs and looks bummed out. “I’m sorry, I wish we had somewhere nicer to do this, but we don’t, so… Drop trou, Wentz.”

Pete takes Patrick’s hand and surveys the options. Against the wall? Over the pallets? On the cold, unlovely floor, cushioning Patrick from the dust and dirt and filth as best he can with flannel shirt and body parts? He’s very aware that this is the last stop of the competition. Tomorrow they’ll go to a neutral hotel, finalise scores Pete doesn’t care about to decide the winner of a competition that means nothing to him. Then they’ll go their separate ways. Pete’s tried to be clear about what he wants, where he sees this going, but Patrick’s married and, sometimes, married people stay together. Maybe Pete’s the port in a storm. Maybe he’ll never find out what Patrick looks like when he wakes up, or how he likes his coffee. Maybe this is the last time. Shame it looks like something from a true crime documentary. 

They stare at one another, unblinking, the air crackling between them. 

“So,” Pete says. “Shall we?”

Then they both move at once, teeth clashing in a high-speed kiss. Patrick exhales like it’s every breath he’s ever held, going slack in Pete’s arms. They bite at one another’s mouths, pulling at shirts, belts, zips. Pete skins his knuckles bloody on Patrick’s belt buckle; he half-strangles Patrick yanking his t-shirt up and over his head. “You have… so many tattoos,” Patrick whispers, dazed, licking at the ink on Pete’s collar bone, rubbing his thumbs over the tattoo between Pete’s hips. “God… Pete.”

Their jeans hit the floor in the same thump. They are, for the first time, completely naked in front of one another. Patrick’s body is thick, pale, soft with rose-gold hair. In theory, Pete knew Patrick’s dick was a magnificent thing but  _ now?  _ Curving up toward his belly, thick and pink and leaking? Pete tweaks a nipple until Patrick squeaks. He dips his thumb into Patrick’s belly button, grips the solid heft of his hips. 

“Bloody hell,” Pete whispers. “You’re so gorgeous.” 

“Don’t talk,” Patrick mutters, blushing several shades past magenta. 

Instead of talking, Pete steers Patrick by the cock to the line of beer barrels. He licks the need from the roof of Patrick’s mouth and grabs his arse in both hands. Pete spreads Patrick’s cheeks with one hand and brushes the inquisitive tip of his index finger between. Patrick squeaks and goes still, his eyes closed, mouth slack. Legs spread, he leans back against the barrel and gives every non-verbal cue Pete needs to sink inside of him and fuck him til the buzz in his brain throbs in time with the pulse in his cock. 

There’s lube in Pete’s pocket, a condom, but he doesn’t think he can bring himself to use them. Not here. Not like this. If this  _ is  _ the beginning of something between them—unnamed, for now—then Pete doesn’t want to look back on the first time they did the whole penetrative sex thing and remember a basement three floors under Patrick’s bastardy husband. He turns Patrick instead. Aching, needing, wanting, he bends Parick over the barrel and drops to his knees. 

And oh, yes. Patrick’s arse is a delectable, a  _ gorgeous _ thing. Pete cups it, squeezes it, spreads his cheeks and inspects the quiver of his hole. He sucks his index finger into his mouth and rubs around and across it, feels Patrick shiver from his crown to his toes. He has a feeling this isn’t something Brendon does for Patrick. Imagine—being the first to give him  _ this. _ Carefully, and with his hands curled over Patrick’s hips, Pete fits his mouth between Patrick’s cheeks and licks. 

The second Pete’s mouth touches him, Patrick looses a wail of wrack and ruin. He squirms and he cries out like the sounds are scraped from his chest. He wraps a hand around his own dick and humps his fist like a teenager. He twists the other hand into Pete’s hair and yanks until it throbs at the roots. He pants, “Bloody fucking hell, _ Pete,” _ and yeah, no. This is the first time. Pete grins against Patrick’s skin and brings in the grazing threat of teeth. 

“Good?” Pete asks, then smacks a kiss to Patrick’s arse. 

“Don’t stop, you absolute  _ bastard,”  _ Patrick gasps. 

Pete doesn’t stop. Pete tastes Patrick with long, sweeping licks. He points the tip of his tongue and darts it over Patrick’s rim. He fucks Patrick open with his tongue, some licks shallow and playful, others deep and testing. He slides in a finger alongside his tongue, widening Patrick and wetting him, creating new ways to tease inside. Chin dripping with spit, he lets his stubble graze the sensitive ridge of Patrick’s perineum, the back of his balls. Pete begins and ends at the points his skin touches Patrick’s, the rest of him novocaine-numb. He chases Patrick’s rocking hips and buries his mouth among Patrick’s nerve endings. Pete wants to live and breathe and die in Patrick’s orgasm.

With every rock of his hips, Patrick shifts further over the barrel, his toes scrambling against the floor. He’s making a noise that’s pretty much constant now, humming from deep in his chest. 

“Singing for me, baby?” Pete asks, sliding in two wet fingers and stretching them, grazing the hot, golden gland of Patrick’s prostate. He scissors them apart and slides his tongue in between, licks as deep along the smooth insides of Patrick as he can. 

“Pete,” Patrick cries out, coming over himself, over the barrel, over his fist and dripping down onto the floor. Pete licks him through every tremor then pulls back, gasping. His dick is so hard he thinks he’s going blind. He presses his fingers in deeper and feels Patrick ripple around him. 

Before he can orientate, he’s on his back, the concrete scraping his shoulders. Patrick blinks up from the vicinity of the hot, red compass point of Pete’s cock. His pupils are blown so wide they eclipse all but the faintest ring of yellow-blue. He lowers his mouth and lets his breath trickle down Pete’s sensitive cock. 

“My turn,” is all he says. Then he’s sinking his lips over Pete’s cock, pulling out the taste with big, desperate hollows of his cheeks. Pete watches his dick disappear into Patrick’s throat again and again, feels the pale tip of Patrick’s nose brush his pubic hair, the tingly, nerve-sensitive skin of his groin. He feels it and he knows he can’t last, can’t last, can’t last. 

He comes so hard he thinks he’ll punch a hole in the back of Patrick’s throat. Eyes squeezed closed and hands buried in Patrick’s hair. He comes and Patrick takes it all and licks Pete’s dick clean with tiny, pink flicks of his tongue. Pete purrs—big cat sated—and tugs Patrick onto his chest. He sucks Patrick’s bitter, salty fingers, kisses his throat, his cheeks, his mouth and tastes himself there. Pete buries his face in Patrick’s throat and tips his head and bites Patrick’s neck, gently, though, just to feel him shiver. 

And then Pete realises Patrick’s crying. 

“Hey, come on, don’t be sad,” he says, tilting up Patrick’s chin. Patrick’s face is a curious thing with tear tracks on his cheeks and this huge, glowing, look-directly-into-the-sun smile slashed across his face. “Uh, so. Not sad?”

“Not sad,” Patrick confirms, hiccuping and sniffling and smiling, smiling, smiling. Smiling so hard it lights him up from within. Sex-sweaty and thoroughly, gorgeously fucked, Patrick’s the most amazing thing Pete’s ever seen. “That was… Bloody hell. That was proper lush. No one’s  _ ever _ done that for me, you know.” 

_ Leh-sh,  _ he pronounces it, rolling it around his mouth. Pete’s so charmed by him, by everything Patrick does and says. He pets Patrick’s hair and his sides and his hips and holds him close and knows with an impossible certainty that there is no way, no way at all, that he’s ever letting Patrick go. 

Pete kisses him—God, Pete might  _ never stop kissing him— _ and he’s just thinking that they could sleep down here, if they needed to. If they laid their clothes on top of the pallets, it might even be cosy. Like scout camp. Only this time, he doesn’t have to pretend he’s sharing a sleeping bag for warmth like he did when he was sixteen and his scoutmaster caught him in the tent with Benji Mayers when they should’ve been orienteering. 

He’s about to moot this to Patrick when Patrick ruins everything. “I want to stay like this forever,” he says. What Pete hears is: but I can’t, because I’m married to the kind of psychopath who hides the hotel room keys.

“It’s just another day,” Pete points out. “One more day, and then we can make plans.”

“We can, can’t we?” Patrick says, the laugh-sob that bubbles out of him ringing off the cellar walls. “Fuck. I want to make plans.”

For the first time since Pete met him, Patrick looks hopeful, he looks hale and happy. It’s a look he wears well and Pete can imagine him months from now, when the fear and the self-loathing have sluiced away as quickly as Brendon’s cologne. He takes Patrick’s hand across the dusty cellar floor and Patrick smiles at him, his eyes shining. 

So, they talk. About the future and the two of them and how Surrey’s really not far from London in the scheme of things. It’s not like Pete’s from Whitby. It’s not like Pete’s from Mars. Pete talks until his throat hurts because talking keeps Patrick on the floor with him, safe from whatever lies beyond that cellar door, up the stairs and in Patrick’s bedroom. He wants to preserve this Patrick in amber, this smiling version, this man who laughs and cuddles and doesn’t look haunted by the vicious poltergeist of a badly thought out marriage. 

Eventually, though, Patrick droops. And then he looks at his phone and his eyes bulge a little and he’s reaching for his shirt and boxers almost like he isn’t consciously aware he’s doing it. 

“We should get back,” he says, already shuffling into his socks. 

Pete hedges. “Interesting theory. Alternatively: we could stay here. Where we’re alone and no one’s around to bother us. And we’re naked. And we can spend the whole night together. And I think I can make us a bed out of fruit juice bottles.  _ And we’re naked.  _ With our  _ penises.” _

Pete thinks he’s made a pretty compelling point, but Patrick rolls his eyes and sits up with commendable dexterity for a man who just laid on a concrete floor for an hour. Pete’s buggered hamstring  _ hates  _ him for this. No more grand romantic gestures unless he has a physio session lined up for the next day. 

They dress in easy silence. Pete uses his t-shirt to wipe away the mess on the barrel and the floor. He grabs a broom and eradicates any trace evidence of their outlines on the cement floor. 

“I told you,” Patrick says. “He doesn’t come down here, does he. You don’t have to clean up.”

“If I don’t clean up, then you’d have to clean up,” Pete points out. Patrick looks so overwhelmed with gratitude, Pete thinks  _ he  _ might cry this time. “No. No, you’re not allowed to get all mopey-weird on me. We can be a team, Patrick. You’re allowed to have a team.”

Patrick turns off the light—so they don’t attract attention—and they climb the steps in silence, by the thin blue light of their phone screens. In the bar, Patrick busies himself lining up glasses that aren’t out of place, polishing tableware that already shines. It’s obvious he’s delaying the inevitable unhappy reunion with the monster on top of his bed. 

“Thank you,” he says eventually. Pete’s eyebrow quirks. “Just, for everything, really. I dunno how I’d have done this without you here. Probably would’ve thrown myself from the bloody Abbey in Whitby, if I’m honest.”

“Thank you,” Pete says. “For being the best thing to happen to me since the FA Cup.”

Patrick laughs, strained. “Go to bed,” he says. “I’m going to be a while down here, no sense you waiting up.”

“I—” Pete starts.

“It’s not like we can go up there at the same time. Go to bed.”

Pete leans over the bar and presses his mouth to Patrick’s.  _ “Like _ you,” he whispers. 

Patrick grins back. “Yeah.  _ Like _ you, too.”

* 

By the time Patrick’s deemed it safe to venture back to his room, it’s just gone midnight. He can barely keep a straight face, his knees still a bit weak and the back of his skull buzzing with the remnants of possibly the best orgasm he’s had in a decade. He grins at the sight of Pete’s room; soon, they’ll be able to share a room, a bed, to wake up next to one another like lovers. Patrick has a  _ lover.  _ The thought alone makes his heart swell. 

Excuses burn on his tongue as he creeps into his bedroom - he was prepping the breakfast, cleaning the bar, no-one can prove otherwise - but Brendon looks to be fast asleep, the room pitch black and the sheets unmoving. Patrick pads towards the bathroom. 

As he cleans up, he catches sight of himself in the bathroom mirror. He can hardly wipe the smile from his eyes. He hasn’t seen himself like this in - in...ever. It feels like Christmas Eve when he curls up on the futon; the terror of tomorrow is tempered by the thought of Pete, grinning at him from the breakfast table. 

He sees the text when he plugs his phone in to charge. It’s from Brendon - maybe they’re out of milk. Maybe he’s just reminding Patrick that he’s an unlovable parasite. Either way, he decides he doesn’t care. Brendon can’t hurt him anymore. 

Except - he can. Patrick stares at the messages. One says:  _ Think I’ve got an admirer.  _ The second is a picture of a torso, a slim, toned torso with a tattoo of a winged bat painted across the hips. Patrick remembers how it tasted on his tongue - his mouth goes sour. 

There’s probably an explanation. A normal, rational explanation as to why Brendon has a picture of Pete, of why Pete’s crotch is on Brendon’s phone, but laying there in the dark, all Patrick can think is the worst, the catastrophic betrayal, the decimation of his hopes. He clamps his hand over his mouth so Brendon won’t hear him cry. When he finally shuts his phone off, shuts his eyes, he doesn’t sleep. 


	7. Chapter 7

Patrick hates the kitchen more than any other room in the hotel. 

From a distance, this room is his domain, Brendon doesn’t cook. Brendon let Patrick pick out every fixture, every fitting, every knife on the rack in the cabinet. Patrick’s mum told him to put the knives out of reach when he got married and he _thinks_ she was joking but, over the years, it’s turned out for the best that he’s never had a weapon to hand when Brendon started complaining about overdone bacon. But, God. Patrick _loathes_ the fucking kitchen.

It’s the sense of servitude, probably. “Forty grand, Patrick. You owe me for this,” Brendon told him, smug, when the kitchen fitters finalized the last worktop.

He stood there, looking at Patrick and the kitchen like a lord observing all he’d pilloried and Patrick felt the weight of that debt all the way down to his marrow. What a thing to owe someone for—a kitchen. What a way to make Patrick feel indebted for this thing, this terrible thing, that makes him work _harder._

This morning, Patrick thinks the worst thing about the kitchen is that there’s no obvious place to cry. When they renovated, Brendon ripped out the original Georgian pantry and Patrick stupidly didn’t ask for a walk-in fridge and there’s no way he’ll fit in a cabinet, even if he puts his legs behind his ears, which he hasn’t been able to do since he was in uni. Still, with a narrow service corridor between kitchen and the guests, at least Patrick’s spared the humiliation of making eye contact with Peen Pic Pete. 

Patrick is swearing at the shiny espresso machine. It’s not doing anything wrong—aside from giving people the option of asking for lattes and cappuccinos instead of a straightforward cup of freeze-dried instant like they’ve been offered at _every other hotel this week._ But Patrick needs to swear at _something,_ or he’s going to pull one of those expensive knives out of the expensive cabinet and he’s going to commit a bloody massacre all over the expensive dining room carpet.

Afterward, in prison, he will not volunteer for kitchen duty. Assuming he’s not acquitted on grounds of temporary insanity.

“Come on, sweetie, time’s a-wasting,” Brendon sing-songs from the door. He’s wearing Gucci and is being as close as he ever gets to nice. It’s like he knows he’s been as awful as he possibly can so there’s no point in trying anymore, even though he’s Brendon and every minute of Patrick’s lived experience suggests that Brendon definitely has further capacity for awfulness. Patrick doesn’t trust him an inch. Patrick doesn’t trust much, if he’s honest, including the coffee machine or his ability to recall Frank’s breakfast order. Patrick especially doesn’t trust Peter, Peter Dick Revealer.

“Was it hash browns, beans _and_ mushrooms?” Patrick mutters to the plate in front of him. Unhelpfully, it says nothing, as plates tend to do. “Or… tomatoes? Did he want tomatoes?”

Brendon steps into the kitchen, despite Patrick’s ardent wish that he would not. “What the hell are you doing? What’s your problem now?”

_Alphabetically, or chronologically?_ Patrick thinks, twisting his thumb into the pulp of a tomato half. 

“Nothing,” Patrick snaps. He adds fried tomato to the plate with a confidence he does not feel. “Frank. Vegan. No meat.”

Brendon’s smile shades from patronizing to sly. “Unlike Pete,” he says. It’s a bold move for someone talking to a man with a chef’s knife to hand.

Carefully, and with no agenda whatsoever, Patrick hatchets off the first inch of a Cumberland sausage. If Brendon winces, Patrick is too busy scooping up Frank’s plate to see it. Patrick has spent half the night pep-talking himself to death. The other half he spent sobbing in the bathroom with the fan going full tilt. It’s safe to say, he’s not in the mood.

“Brendon,” he says, carefully. “Please take this to Frank.”

“Did you let him fuck you?” Brendon says. 

Patrick’s breath tangles in the thorns at the back of his throat. Brendon doesn’t take the plate. Patrick’s just standing there, holding it out in front of himself, as subservient as the worktop and twice as shiny. 

Patrick thinks of the bins in Brighton, the oak tree in Surrey, the cellar. His palms sweat and his face must give him away because Brendon chuckles in this smug, self-satisfied way that makes Patrick want to choke him. “That,” Patrick says, his voice trembling, “is none of your business.”

“You _did,_ didn’t you? What the fuck, I was _kidding,”_ Brendon says, gleeful in the face of Patrick’s absolute, all-consuming miserable humiliation. “Well, well, well. Where did _this_ happen? In the back of his car? In the toilets?”

Patrick looks down in horror at the vegan breakfast. He can feel his cheeks turning the same shade as the tomato on the plate. It’s too close to the truth, isn’t it? With a handful of hateful words, Brendon strips away anything good from the past few days. It’s obvious to Patrick and Brendon and anyone else who’d care to see it that Pete wanted a convenient orgasm and Patrick can’t complain because he fell for it. Didn’t Patrick _rush_ to give it to him? Of course Pete’s not interested in a loser like Patrick. Patrick is so embarrassed. He’s such an _idiot._

“Shut up, Brendon,” he says, in a low voice. His grip on the plate is so fierce it must verge on splintering. “No one fucked anyone.” It’s technically true, by a strict definition in which fucking equals penetrative sex. Patrick did not fuck Pete and Patrick did not allow himself to be fucked by Pete and that’s fine because Patrick’s spent the past ten years letting Brendon fuck him over and maybe, honestly, that’s all he’s good for. Patrick scrubs his eyes on the shoulder of his t-shirt, wiping away salt water he’ll insist to Brendon and himself is sweat and not tears. 

“Come on, Patster, he’s a _footballer,”_ Brendon says. His smile is all teeth, it bites chunks from Patrick until all that’s left is the rotten, bitter core at the centre. “He’ll have dozens of blokes on the go, won’t he?”

“Not everyone’s like that. Not everyone’s like _you.”_

“You need to be realistic,” Brendon goes on. 

“Oh, do I now?”

“I’d say ‘stop punching above your weight’ but, like, not _literally,_ you know. Maybe finding someone _literally_ above your weight would—”

“Stop it! Leave me alone!”

The silence that follows feels like the eye of the storm. It crackles and pulses, hot and unkind with the threat of more to come. At some point, Patrick threw Frank’s breakfast against the kitchen wall and shards of porcelain form bone-white islands in a sea of bloody baked bean sauce. The worst part is he’s going to have to clean that up. He’s going to have to plate a new breakfast for Frank, he’s going to have to order a new plate and pray to God the tiles aren’t chipped or that’s a handyman he’ll need, too. All of that—every moment of subservience—will feel like an apology he’s not inclined to give. 

Then, he notices the voices. Producer, camera operator, sound guy, boom mic, best boy, key grip, assistants, and interns. A whole predatory pack, prowling and excited, sensing blood in the air.

“Oh, balls,” Patrick mutters, sucking tomato sauce from the back of his hand and hoping it’s not blood. 

“Everything okay?” chirps the producer. She sounds like she hopes the answer is ‘no’. 

“Er…” Patrick says, gesturing weakly to the smashed up breakfast. “Just… slipped. Nothing to worry about—”

“My husband is having an affair with one of our guests,” Brendon wails, with such heartbreak Patrick performs a dramatic double take. 

“That’s not exactly—”

“He’s been shagging about behind my back!”

“It wasn’t like that—”

“Can you believe it—in my hotel! Oh my God. I need to sit down.”

The producer is basically salivating at this point. Patrick’s making panicked little ‘uh, uh, uh’ sounds in the back of his throat, choking on air and sticky with fear-sweat. 

“Move! Everyone out the way!” Pete’s shouldering his way through the camera crew, less like a striker and more like a rugby prop. He’s the only person Patrick wants to see right now. He’s the _last_ person on earth Patrick wants to see right now.

“Him! He’s the bloody bastard that shagged my bloody husband!” Brendon shouts, confusing Four in a Bed with Downton Abbey: The Homosexual Edition. 

“Oh, go and sequin your dildo collection, you massive pain in the arse,” Pete snaps back. 

“If we could just get the cameras into the kitchen…”

“Not now,” Pete barks at the producer. “Turn the bloody cameras off. This isn’t appropriate.”

He must hold some kind of celebrity thrall still, because she backs down and signals for the crew to lower their cameras. It feels like a reprieve on the firing line. Patrick’s heart has never thundered with such an intense and terrifying fear. If he throws up, he’s not sure he’ll ever live it down.

“It’s okay, just take a minute, no one needs to film anything else until we do the scores,” Pete’s saying to him, like Patrick’s one enduring wish is to carry on filming a fucking teatime television show when his whole life is in tatters. Maybe this was Pete’s plan all along: to orchestrate tension by seeking out the easiest, loneliest member of the group. Sex sells, after all. Patrick revisits his earlier thoughts on vomiting and decides it might not be such a bad idea after all.

“I need—” he starts weakly, then bites it off.

Patrick is so tired of being weak.

“Actually,” he says, “I think I’m going to be off now.”

“Oh, stop it, Patrick, there’s filming to finish,” Brendon says, rolling his eyes.

Patrick shakes his head. “Not for me, there’s not. I’m done, Brendon. Finished. I hope you win the bloody plaque. I hope you choke on the bloody champagne.”

The crew gape at them in open astonishment. The producer starts hissing into her phone. Patrick has a feeling she’ll be dining out on this one for years to come. He tries to pull off his apron with the sexy irritation of a Grey’s Anatomy surgeon removing their mask after a disappointing surgery but it snags on his ears and his love handles and he ends up sort of… flopping out of it, like a bag of spuds coming untied. It’s not the dignified exit he might’ve hoped for, but it’ll have to do. 

“Where do you think you’re going?” Brendon snaps. 

“Home,” Patrick barks, shoving past cameras and microphones and a youth with a clipboard and a look on his face that says this is the greatest moment of his internship so far. “I’m going back to my mum’s. You win, Brendon, I’m not fighting with you. You win.”

*

Patrick’s aware Pete’s following him when he slams the bedroom door as hard as he can. He twists the lock with shaking, furious fingers and kicks the skirting board for good measure. All he achieves is a sharp pain in his foot. 

Wiping his eyes on his sleeve, he blinks around at all he has to show for his five years of hard work: a bed, a telly, a pile of vinyl and a coat hanger weighed with band t-shirts hooked over the bathroom door. There’s not much else. Brendon told him he could take from the marriage what he put into it, and he can’t pack emotional labour in a box. Leaving without a trace won’t take long. 

Now that he’s alone, he lets himself spill open, his chest heaving with sobs as he reaches for the rucksack under his bed. He rams things into it with such force that he makes his arms ache, his knuckles red, his body straining from the wrench of life as he knows it. When a bottle of shaving gel squirts over his hands, he hurls it across the room. 

“Patrick?” Pete’s saying, distant and pathetic. Patrick wonders if he could accurately throw his bedside lamp. “Patrick, I - oh, fuck off, will you?” 

Something cracks inside Patrick and he considers opening the door just to ram a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle action figure down his throat, but instead, he curls his fists around the strap of the bag and pulls until his fingers turn purple. 

“I’m talking to the cameras,” Pete clarifies through the door as footsteps vibrate up and down the hall. “Fuck!” he shouts, “Fuck! Fuck! Cunt! Cunt! Adidas! Uncle Ben’s! Dr. Oetker! Cunt! Cunt! BBC One, BBC One, BBC One!” 

Patrick rakes his fingernails over his temples and hauls his aching body to its feet. On yanking the door open, he sees Pete, marching towards the cameras with middle fingers raised, still shouting profanities. “What in the name of hell is going on out here?” 

“I was just - dealing with them,” Pete breathes, creeping backwards towards Patrick’s bedroom and making obscene gestures in the direction of a peeking camera lens. “Cunt!” he calls, for good measure. The lens disappears. “Sorry.” 

Patrick turns and walks back into the mess he’s made, slumping to the floor and shoving spilt clothes back into his rucksack. He wipes his eyes on snot-stained sleeves and doesn’t care what he looks like - Pete can say what he wants, Patrick’s made up his mind. He can’t stay here. 

The lock clicks as Pete pushes the door shut. “Sorry,” he says again, softly. Patrick waits for more, _sorry, I didn’t realise you liked me so much; sorry, I didn’t think you’d mind; sorry, but you’re only useful as a fuckhole, a fleshlight, a whore._ The silence hangs in the air like the smell of burnt breakfast. 

“We don’t have to talk,” Pete says eventually, uselessly. 

Patrick shoves a mismatched pair of socks into the bag and spits fire. “If you wanted to get your cock in me, you picked the wrong moment.” 

“No!” Pete flails, “God, no. Why would you think—? Patrick, what did Brendon say to you?” 

As if Pete doesn’t already know. They probably spent all night texting about it, laughing about Patrick’s ignorance, his sincerity, his great fat arse. He rips his phone from his pocket and stares at the messages, still open on the screen. He knows them word for word, pixel for pixel. He lobs the phone across the carpet at Pete’s feet. “There. You want my bloody wallet, too?” 

Patrick crams a deodorant bottle into the top of the bag and curses when it leaps back out at him. “Fuck,” Pete says. Patrick doesn’t look at him. “Fuck, he sent you this after—? 

“Yep.” 

“But—you didn’t think—Patrick, you didn’t think I sent him this? Did you?” 

“I dunno, Pete,” he hisses. “Did I?” 

He hears Pete take a breath. “Okay, first thing’s first—this is my Grindr profile picture,” he says calmly. “Here.” 

Pete’s phone slides neatly across the carpet and stops beside Patrick’s foot. On the screen is the photo. It shows a few more inches of Pete’s pubic bone than Patrick remembers, and a Grindr logo. 

“You can have a look through. I can’t promise there aren’t any gross conversations on there, but I _can_ promise I haven’t talked to anyone since I met you. And I _definitely_ never responded to—ugh.” 

“Responded,” Patrick repeats, tapping through to Pete’s messages. He has many admirers, many who feel the need to send photos of their genitals in order to win his affection. Most start with a simple _hey,_ others send a string of acronyms Patrick doesn’t understand. All of them are stunning. One of them is Brendon. “He messaged you.”

“On the first day, yeah,” Pete sighs. The message just says _hey sexy xx._ It’s from nearly two weeks ago—unread. “Probably before he knew who I was. And then—last night, when I was, fucking, getting naked at the bar or whatever I was doing, I gave myself away. And—voila. He found another way to torture you.” 

Patrick stares at Pete’s messages. He might’ve assumed he’d be happy to learn that Pete is not, in fact, shagging his soon-to-be-ex husband—instead he just feels a weight, a world of guilt. Pete could have anyone he wants, and instead, he’s having to console a weeping lump of lard in a bedroom that’s one taped-down bin bag away from looking like a crack den. The fury leaves a gaping space. 

“Someone named Mark thinks you’re hot,” Patrick says, sliding Pete’s phone back. 

“I’m sorry. I should’ve been more careful. I should’ve just fucking blocked him.” 

Patrick hums his agreement and scoops old crumbs from the pocket of his rucksack. 

“Patrick,” Pete says like it’s difficult to hold, “what else has he been saying to you?” 

Patrick shrugs. He’s feeling petulant. 

“Okay, so, he’s pretended I like him, and now, presumably, he’s trying to persuade you I don’t actually like you? That I’m only in it for the shagging? Am I in the right area?” 

Patrick suddenly resents that Pete knows him so well. That way, all this might not hurt so much. “Pretty much,” he mumbles.

Pete sits an arms length from Patrick and leans up against the bed. “Well, no offence, but that is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. What, so his master plan was to convince you that a man who put his _whole tongue_ up your arse wasn’t actually into you? With a badly cropped Grindr picture? Who is this bloke?!” 

When Patrick tries to laugh, he lets out a sob instead. Pete’s grinning at him, sad and wide and soppy, and Patrick aches. 

“God, come here,” Pete says, and Patrick does, Patrick collapses towards him and lets Pete catch him and cradle him close. “Those stupid Grindr texts, this fucking programme, bloody _Brendon—_ it’s all rubbish. They’re not even, like, _real._ You’ve got to stop thinking you’re less valuable. You seem to think I’m looking for something out of a magazine, but really, if the last two weeks has taught me anything, it’s that, in a sort of, existential way, I’ve been looking for you.” 

“Bloody hell,” Patrick says. 

“Was that too much?” Pete says, his hands stilling halfway down Patrick’s spine. “‘Cause, I’m not always great at knowing what to—” 

“Shh,” Patrick says, patting Pete’s chest. “That’s enough.” 

“Okay,” Pete replies, stroking his fingers through the hairs at the back of Patrick’s head. “Sorry.” Patrick smiles to himself—he can almost hear the unsaid words jumping out of Pete’s chest. 

“Um,” Pete adds, as if compelled, “are you really going to leave?” 

Patrick sighs, breathing in the smell of Pete and stale breakfast. “I don’t know. I can’t be alone with him.” 

Under Patrick’s head, Pete’s shoulder shrugs. “Stay with me,” he says. “Yeah. Stay with me, we can have a whole cottage to ourselves. And a—oh my _God_ , Patrick, there’s a bed right here, and we’re not on it.” 

With remarkable liquidity, Pete slithers out from under him and flops onto Patrick’s bed, spreading his arms out and shoving his face into the covers. “That’s the stuff,” he sighs. “‘S way more comfy than that pallet of tonic water.”

Patrick sinks into the sheets beside him and watches him over the horizon of duvet. Within seconds, Pete’s folding him up in his arms, his lips pecking Patrick’s forehead and his thumb sneaking under Patrick’s t-shirt to stroke at the roll of his hips. Patrick can’t decide whether he’d rather fuck or sleep. 

“So, will you stay?” Pete asks. “I guess it’s pretty soon to meet my parents, but you’ve already met my dad. My mum will love you. She’s definitely going to cry, so, prepare yourself for that, and—oh, you don’t play backgammon, do you? It’s their favourite. Also, we have a cat called Margaret.” 

“Okay,” Patrick says, and the look of hope on Pete’s face spreads to his whole body, his hands squeezing Patrick tight and his lips peppering kisses over Patrick’s face. “Wait—wait,” Patrick breathes, ducking away from Pete’s searching mouth, “what about the scores?” 

“Miss them, if you want,” Pete shrugs. 

Patrick pictures Brendon, untethered and counting money. It’s what he’s wanted all along. 

“Or,” Pete starts, a grin growing in his eyes, “we say, fuck it. We don’t fight him, or argue with him, we just—sit there. Holding hands. Gazing at one another whilst he nitpicks the grouting.” 

Despite everything, Patrick _would_ like to see it through. He’s got this far—he’d quite like to see the look on Brendon’s face when he gets a two for hosting. “Alright,” he says eventually. “Yeah. The prick deserves a showing up.” 

“Damn right,” Pete smiles, stroking a hand over Patrick’s face. “Now—seeing as we’re in bed…” His hand slides to Patrick’s arse and squeezes lightly. Patrick’s cock suddenly pays attention. “You look fucking—edible.” 

“Oh, bugger,” Patrick blurts, “you didn’t get any breakfast.” 

Pete sniggers and places the pad of his thumb over Patrick’s bottom lip. “Doesn’t matter. When I bring you home, I’m ordering us the biggest, greasiest takeaway the South Downs has to offer, and there won’t be any cameras watching us eat it.” 

For that, Patrick kisses him, hard and fast and wanting. In a flurry of hands and tongues, Patrick ends up on top of Pete, his thigh pressed between Pete’s legs and Pete groaning beneath him. For once, everything seems perfect—no mud, no wind, no puddles or barrels or bins. Then, someone bangs on the door. 

It’s the producer. “Excuse me?” 

Patrick retracts his tongue from Pete’s mouth and watches Pete wince. “Fucking hell,” he breathes, pushing his fingers into his eyes.

“Listen, boys, we’re on a tight schedule, we need you both for the feedback shots in thirty seconds. The venue is booked for one o’clock and there is _no_ wriggle-room. None.” Her shrill voice alone kills Patrick’s erection dead. 

“Bloody typical,” Patrick huffs, climbing off Pete and heaving himself towards the door. 

“Wait!” Pete says, scrambling after him. “Wait—one last thing.” Before Patrick can twist the handle, Pete’s hands cup his face and he kisses Patrick firmly, surely. “There. Done.” 

Patrick smiles. He thinks of later, of beds, sex, food and cuddles. Then, he opens the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next week? The final chapter...


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we have it! The final chapter! Thank you so much to everyone who's been following along, or if you've just arrived, we're glad you've made it this far. I don't think this is a fic either of us really expected to write - it just sort of happened, and we couldn't have asked for a better response. We've really enjoyed writing it (despite numerous breakdowns, all of them mine) and if Snitches isn't totally fed up with me, maybe we'll write something together again at some point. 
> 
> We both intend to write something festive this year, so keep an eye out for those, but for now, we hope you enjoy the final chapter of our Bed and Breakfast Boys!

They tally the scores at an upmarket hotel in central London. It’s nice—nicer than Patrick’s hotel. Nicer than any hotel he’s been in since his honeymoon, actually. They’re the first to arrive, Patrick and Brendon, and Patrick can’t decide if he’s devastated Pete’s not here to cheerlead, or pleased Pete’s not here to punch Brendon in the face.

It’s not that he doesn’t think Brendon deserves it—by all accounts he absolutely  _ does.  _ Patrick’s had some rows during his marriage but never before have they required a rank on the bloody Richter scale. He takes a seat and pours himself a glass of water. His hand trembles fractionally.

Brendon bursts into the room like the after-image of a plane crash. He flops into the chair beside Patrick at the table and Patrick has no idea why. Once, they shared a bed and a last name and a life and now Patrick—Patrick doesn’t even want to share a  _ hemisphere  _ with Brendon. He looks at Brendon and Brendon stares back at him without flinching and Patrick knows without having to ask that Brendon doesn’t feel guilty, or sorry, or even  _ responsible.  _ All these years, and Patrick’s been asking himself what Brendon saw in him. Now, finally, Patrick wonders: what the fuck did he ever see in  _ Brendon. _

“You’re lucky I bothered to show up,” Brendon tells Patrick, the crew, the producer who looks roughly one-thousand-percent done with his shit for one day.

“Yes,” she says, before Patrick can. “We’re very blessed. Couldn’t have gone on without you.”

Brendon pulls a face. He’s not used to people telling him what to do. He’s less used to people talking down to him. The river of bad feeling, like all bodies of turbulent water, flows down, and he points the mouth directly at Patrick. “Still here, fatty? Didn’t run to mummy, after all?”

Patrick smiles back beatifically and takes another sip from his glass. He is so over Brendon hurting his feelings. He’s not sure it’s possible any more, if Patrick has actually become rubber and Brendon glue.

“Stop it, just—any more of that and I’ll have you removed from the set. I’m going to fetch everyone else,” the producer tells them both. “Do you promise no one’s going to hit anyone, or shout obscenities?”

“In Pete’s defence,” Patrick says mildly, “I don’t think BBC One is an obscenity.”

The producer looks like she doesn’t think he’s funny, which is ridiculous because Patrick is clearly hilarious. To be fair, the producer doesn’t look like she thinks  _ anything _ is funny right now which, after the morning she’s had, is understandable. She leaves the room.

“They’re going to make you look terrible in the edit,” Brendon tells him.

“Is that so?” Patrick asks, not looking up from his phone. Pete’s sent him a gif of two otters holding hands. Patrick sends him one of two collies hugging.

“You’ll be a laughing stock when this is over.”

“Will I now.”

“You’re going to look like an absolute twat.”

“Hmm.”

Brendon gives up and thumbs through his phone with outright hostility. The door opens and Gerard and Frank walk in and Patrick realises that these people overheard the last notes of the finale of his marriage through the kitchen door this morning. He starts to feel a bit panicky. What if they think he’s ridiculous? What if they think Brendon’s telling the truth—that Patrick’s the cheat, the liar, the one who ranked his genitals above his wedding vows? Patrick starts to get to his feet, then decides it might be better if he stays sitting down; that way, the underside of the table is only a wriggle away.

Gerard gives him a look Patrick can’t begin to interpret. Patrick clears his throat nervously and says, “I’m really sorry about your breakfast. I hope—Did someone sort something out for you?”

“Oh,  _ Patrick,”  _ says Gerard, laughing as he rushes across the room and folds Patrick into a hug. Patrick’s never been hugged by a Lost Boy before. Gerard’s warmer and softer than his skin tone implies. “You… you silly boy. Of course no one cares about breakfast. We only care about  _ you.” _

Patrick says, “Oh.”

“’Ow do,” Frank says, with a taciturn nod and a firm handshake. Patrick gets the feeling this is the closest Frank gets to affection.

Beryl hugs him tightly and tells him she hopes he’s okay. Ivy hands him a tissue and squeezes his arm and that’s when he realises he might be crying a  _ tiny  _ bit. Pete’s dad mumbles something— _ welcome to the family, he’s a bloody pain in the arse at times, so good luck looking after him— _ and Pete. Pete just squeezes Patrick’s shoulder and kisses him on the cheek. He doesn’t say a word, doesn’t have to, they communicate without words.

Patrick hasn’t had a lot of friends in his adult life. It’s what happens, isn’t it? He’s aligned himself with Brendon and Brendon’s mates, spent his time doing the things Brendon wants to do, going where Brendon wants to go. When Patrick looked up, halfway through his twenties, he realised all his friends had melted away. He has friends now, though. It feels like having an army.

Before Patrick can open his mouth and say something and embarrass himself horribly, the producer plonks a toast holder stuffed with coloured envelopes onto the table. “The money,” she says, like none of them are familiar with the content of the show. “You’ll each get the chance to ask the others about your feedback forms, then you open the envelopes and see what you got. This is your last chance, folks, only hold back if you’re trying to make friends!”

“With  _ these _ people, I don’t think so,” Brendon mutters, clearly under the impression his allies are numerous and his support is strong. Patrick almost feels bad for him when Pete shuffles his chair closer to Patrick and gives Brendon a glare that says  _ if it were permitted, I’d have inserted my payment deep into a certain orifice _ . Almost. 

Gerard and Frank go first. Gerard flips open the black folder and runs his finger down the page. “We got some lovely feedback, but… Brendon,” he says. He makes no effort to sound polite. “You said the bed was uncomfortable. You said the décor was trying too hard. You said the seagulls were too noisy. That bed is brand new; our décor is part of the experience; the hotel is  _ at the seaside.” _

“The seagulls,” Brendon says seriously, “were very noisy. Almost as loud as the pattern on those curtains.”

Pete looks at Brendon’s leopard print jacket. “Interesting,” he says.

Patrick winces so hard he feels his jaw crack. “I am  _ so sorry.  _ That’s not what we agreed to write on the feedback form at all. Your hotel is lovely!”

“Just open the envelopes, love,” says Frank. He looks at Patrick and shrugs, palms held out, as if to say,  _ husbands, right? _

Gerard does. Pete and his dad have paid full price, Beryl and Ivy ten pounds under for a leaky shower head. Gerard opens the final envelope, slitting the top and counting out tens and twenties and a single pound coin.

“Ninety-one quid,” he says. His voice wobbles. 

It’s less than half the rate for the room. Patrick eyes it with horror, somehow, the pound coin seems to be the most insulting part. He grabs the envelope and tips it upside down. He hopes fervently that more money will fall out—money he remembers  _ putting there— _ but money refuses to appear. Patrick’s blood turns to sour milk. He looks at Brendon and feels sticky with fury.

“You took money back out of the bloody envelope,” he hisses. Brendon blinks back at him and does not react. “Guys, I’m sorry, I didn’t know. Please, I—I would never do that to you. You know that, don’t you?”

“It’s fine, Patrick,” Gerard says. He wears the look of a man who both expected this and wasn’t prepared for it, all at once.

“Well,” says Beryl, opening her folder. “Let’s have a look, shall we. Someone said they really liked the courtyard. We think that must’ve been Pete.”

“Only smoker,” Pete says cheerfully, winking at Patrick. “Guilty as charged.”

“Brendon,” says Beryl severely. “Room tired. No on-site parking. You marked us down on cleanliness because you could smell  _ bleach.” _

Patrick buries his face in his hands and whimpers softly. “Oh, for God’s sake.”

“It was overpowering,” Brendon says. 

Beryl says nothing as she opens the envelopes, but Patrick holds his breath. “Forty,” says Ivy. “For a room and breakfast in a beachfront hotel. You couldn’t book a hostel for that. Care to explain?”

“You have to be realistic,” Brendon says, which isn’t an explanation. Patrick wishes he’d said the same on their wedding day.

Patrick stares at a spot on the wall and wishes himself invisible. Sadly, magic stretches into disbelief and he remains resolutely solid. It’s Pete’s turn next and he picks up the feedback forms with something approaching gleeful mischief.

“Bebo,” he says. Brendon’s scowl is scorching, apocalyptic, rankable as an international nuclear incident. “You didn’t like the cottage, did you?”

“I did not,” says Brendon.

“You didn’t like the breakfast hamper.”

“No one likes a breakfast hamper. Haven’t you watched the show before?”

“You didn’t like the bed or the curtains or the bedding.”

“Yawn.”

“It doesn’t seem like you’ve liked much about  _ anyone’s _ hotel,” Pete says. “Peculiar.”

“Are you accusing me of cheating?” Brendon asks, polite with fury.

“Brendon,” Pete says, “I don’t fu—I don’t  _ care.” _

Patrick watches this, his head snapping back and forth like he’s on Henman Hill at Wimbledon. The producer opens her mouth, closes it. She looks openly annoyed. If Pete swears in front of the camera again, there’s a very real chance this episode will never see the light of day. Patrick’s trying, and failing, to see that as a bad thing. 

Pete’s dad opens the envelopes while Pete holds Patrick’s hand, openly and in full view of the cameras. Brendon pulls a face like the two of them drove to Kensington or Maida Vale and peed on Ryan’s toilet seat. 

“Everyone paid the rate,” Pete’s dad says. “Well, everyone except Brendon. Brendon paid twenty pounds.”

There are collective gasps of outrage and horror. Gerard looks close to emotional collapse. Frank looks… the same as Frank always looks, actually, but disapproval radiates from him. Patrick buries his face in Pete’s shoulder and wishes, vehemently, to die. 

“I’m sorry,” Patrick mumbles, even though no one is glaring at  _ him.  _ Patrick’s spent the past ten years feeling sorry for something. It’s not an easy habit to shake. 

“It doesn’t matter,” Pete says, into the hair behind Patrick’s ear. “Remember what I said—It’s not real.” 

When it comes down to it, Brendon wins. Technically, Brendon and Patrick win, but Patrick couldn’t care less about the stupid plaque. There’s a table and flutes of cheap champagne and everyone slaps Patrick on the back and congratulates him and tells him how well he’s done. Patrick’s unused to praise, like a dog with a sports car, he doesn’t really know what to do with it. He makes apologetic noises at everyone—so sorry, you deserved it more, thank you thank you  _ thank you _ —he’s hugged and squeezed and handed a glass of bubbles that goes down easy.

“I suppose you think you deserve this, don’t you?” Brendon says, shoving the plaque toward Patrick.

Patrick looks down at it and feels absolutely nothing. Through the throng at the champagne table, he can see Pete, smiling shyly and tapping the face of his watch. “When do you want to leave?” he mouths, and, God,  _ now _ isn’t soon enough.

Patrick pats the plaque gently and looks at Brendon. This might be the last time they’re in the same room. He doesn’t feel sad, but he does feel a grave sort of finality, like the last day of a terrible job. He’s come to think of Brendon as… someone he met. 

“You keep it,” Patrick says, his heart already in the passenger seat of Pete’s Land Rover, trundling down the motorway towards the South Downs. “I hope it makes you happy. Honestly, I hope  _ something _ makes you happy.”

And Patrick walks away from Brendon. He wraps his arms around Pete’s neck and kisses him full and on the mouth. Pete’s hands anchor to his waist, warm and sure and Pete’s dad says something about getting away before they lose the light and they’re walking out hand in hand and Patrick doesn’t look back at Brendon or think about him at all because he’s too busy looking at Pete, thinking about Pete, wanting Pete, and Pete, and  _ Pete _ .

“Ready?” says Pete, his smile sparkling.

Patrick kisses him.

*

"You must be Patrick," Pete's mum says, her bejewelled hands gripping Patrick's forearms. She's a woman after Patrick's own heart - short, stout and smiley. Her hair is wound into beaded braids that tinkle together when she gathers Patrick up in a hug. "Aren't you handsome," she says, touching Patrick's face like he's her new son-in-law. "Isn't he handsome?"

"Don't let's make Patrick feel uncomfortable," Pete Sr. sighs as he squeezes through the front door behind them with the last of the luggage.

"Yes, he is," Pete says with a twinkling grin. He looks a lot like his mum, now Patrick thinks of it; they've got the same thick eyebrows, the same warmth in their eyes. He slips an arm around Patrick's waist and leads him through the house.

It feels more like home, the second time around. The house ebbs with waves of heat from the wood-burning stove, and Patrick thinks he can smell cheese on toast. The lounge is picture-perfect, complete with squashy sofas and a cat curled in the corner. Dale urges them both to take a seat, and when they do, they sink into the cushions together. Patrick's jumper matches the carpet. This must be a  _ sign.  _

"Tea?" Mrs. Wentz chirps, eyeing Patrick as she circles the couch like a shark who's smelled marriage material. "Coffee? Sugar?"

"Tea, please, no sugar," Patrick says, as he has at every breakfast table for the past decade.  _ Empty calories,  _ Brendon had said.  _ So fattening,  _ even after Patrick switched to the joyless bilgewater of skimmed milk. Patrick can't remember the last time Brendon made him tea. "Actually," he says, "could I have two sugars?"

Mrs. Wentz beams. "Of course you can." 

As his mum floats away, Pete turns to Patrick. "You take sugar?"

"Sorry," Patrick says impulsively, and then, "but I like it."

"Look at you, asking for what you want," Pete grins. His eyes cut to Patrick's lips and his hand squeezes Patrick's thigh. "It's sexy."

"Might make a habit of it," Patrick replies, and he thinks he sees Pete genuinely, visibly shudder. After years of dormancy, Patrick's inner coquette has come to life - he bites his lip and shifts his legs open and watches Pete melt before him. If Brendon was a gemstone, Pete's a gift-wrapped box of fudge. Patrick knows which he'd rather put in his mouth. 

"Well, that's that," Pete Sr. sighs as he trails into the room and eases himself into the nearest armchair. The cat immediately leaps onto his lap. Pete takes his hand off Patrick's thigh. "It's a bloody relief to be home." 

"You deserved to win," Patrick says. He's said it several times since the producer's blinding smile disappeared over the horizon, but once again, Pete shakes his head. 

"Nah. He won for a reason, and that reason was you." 

"And because he docked everyone else's pay," Pete's dad points out. "But - fair play to you, Patrick, you ran a smooth operation." 

"See?" Pete says, "And now Brendon's gotta live with that. I hope he seethes over it." 

"Bloody tosser," grunts Pete Sr.

"He sounds it," Dale says as she sweeps into the room clutching a tray of tea and chocolate hobnobs. The family murmur their agreement. It's as if Patrick's spent the last decade living in a Brendon-worshipping cult; it's only now he's out of the bunker that he's realising he's not delusional. Brendon isn't a genius, or an innovator, or a God - he's just a regular wanker in a regular wanker suit. 

Patrick ends up squashed between Pete and his mum, braced for the interrogation. Brendon's mum had always seemed rather disappointed when Patrick walked through the door; even more so when he revealed that no, he hasn't lost weight and yes, he's still working on a five-year plan. Instead, Dale just asks where he got his jumper, how he might like his eggs tomorrow morning and which part of Wales he's from because  _ oh, isn't your accent gorgeous.  _

"You'll have to take Pete home with you," she concludes, "he could do with some fresh air." 

"We live in Surrey," Pete says flatly. 

"I know, I know," she bristles, "I mean - new air. Away from London and all the - the -" 

"Drugs?" Pete offers. "Nightclubs? Gangsters?" 

His mother scowls. "You've heard about his colourful past, I s'pose." 

"Mum's confusing poker games with large-scale cocaine orgies," Pete explains. "Anyway, the orgies were only small. And the coke was organic." 

"Don't joke, Peter," Dale warns, "or I'll tell lovely Patrick about that night you came home." 

Pete rolls his eyes. "Not that again." 

"What happened?" Patrick asks, watching Pete hide behind his mug of tea. 

"It wasn't my fault. I'm pretty sure I was spiked. Anyway, it was nothing horrible, it was just -"

"Humiliating?" Dale suggests. "Ask where I found him." 

"Where?" Patrick asks. 

Pete's expression is a potent mix of apologetic and furious. "...The vegetable patch," he says eventually. 

"And why were you there?" Dale asks sweetly. 

Pete's mouth twists. "I was hungry." 

"I found him face down in the raised bed gnawing on half a carrot." 

Patrick snorts. "Like - like the were-rabbit?" 

"Oh, piss off, yes, like the bloody were-rabbit," Pete snaps, but when he looks away, the corner of his mouth twitches with humour. "Can't believe my mum and my boyfriend are embarrassing me like this. You're both supposed to love me." 

Patrick's smile broadens when he hears the words  _ boyfriend _ and  _ love _ from Pete's downturned mouth. "You're a prize idiot," he says, steeped in affection.

"Well, tough luck, bumpkin, you're stuck with me," Pete huffs, "in idiocy and in health." 

Beside Patrick, Mrs. Wentz purrs. "Look at you two," she sighs, her fingers wrapping around Patrick's wrist. "Pete's brought home some horrors, but you - you're just a sweetie-pie, aren't you." 

_ I am a sweetie-pie, _ is the first thing Patrick thinks, and it makes his insides feel like his outsides - fuzzy and woollen. 

"I remember when your father and I were like you two," Dale sighs, casting a glance at Mr. Wentz, who has fallen asleep with his mouth open and biscuit crumbs down his shirt. Pete makes a face, but Patrick just smiles. He could think of worse ways to spend a lifetime. 

*

Being naked in front of Pete hasn't got any easier. Some things have got much,  _ much _ harder; Patrick's dick sticks out in front of him like a cartoon baseball bat, but as usual, it's his squashier parts that are having doubts. His belly quivers like a blancmange and his thighs like great trunks of panna cotta. He can't go back and switch a decade of comfort-eating for a lifetime gym membership, so he'll just have to hope Pete likes puddings. 

And there he is, fresh from the shower and dripping, glistening in the doorway. He hasn't bothered with a towel - he's all bare skin and tattoos and big, handsome cock. For a moment, he's statuesque, effortlessly model-like, running an absent hand through his hair and dragging his smouldering gaze from Patrick's head to Patrick's toes. Then his face splits into a grin, and Pete returns, galloping towards Patrick in a gangling mess of limbs. "You're naked," he beams. 

"I s'pose I am," Patrick says, taking hold of Pete's hands since Pete seems to have no idea what to do with them. They hover around one another, looking, waiting, unsure what to do now that there's no constraints, no parents, no Brendon. Kissing - that seems a good place to start.

A peck grows into a snog and suddenly it's easier; Patrick knows how to do this, how to tug Pete's hair  _ just  _ so, how to coax that sweet, sultry hum from the back of Pete's throat. "What do you want to do?" Pete purrs, stroking his hands down Patrick's frame and stopping just above Patrick's cock.

Patrick's mind goes suddenly blank. He wants - he wants...he's not sure what he wants. He's never given it much thought - he always went along with Brendon's preferences, which usually involved painful restraints or tight outfits. "No nipple clamps," he blurts. "Please."

Pete lets out a shocked laugh and a crease appears between his brows. "Nipple — ? No!" Pete says, stroking his thumbs over both Patrick's nipples in unison. "Look at them," Pete coos as Patrick's nipples perk at his touch, "they don't deserve to be clamped. I promise I will never clamp your nipples."

Patrick laughs, pushing another kiss to Pete's lips and taking their cocks together in his hand. "Let's start on the bed," he murmurs. He'll figure it out from there.

He manoeuvers them backwards until Pete's legs hit the bed and he folds like a lawn chair, toppling onto the sheets with thighs spread and cock on display. All of a sudden, Patrick knows what he wants.

Climbing on top of Pete is a less graceful process than Patrick might've hoped, but he makes it, settling between Pete's legs and spreading both his hands over the bones of Pete's hips. "I'm not being funny, but I think I'd like to fuck you."

Pete grins and wriggles his freakishly long toes. "Your dirty talk is second to none," he says, and Patrick thinks he just  _ might _ be making fun of him. For once, he doesn't mind. "I stocked the bathroom with lube and condoms."

"Don't remember that kind of service during our stay," Patrick remarks, stumbling towards the bathroom. "Might've won you the trophy."

"Fuck off," Pete laughs, "cheeky bastard."

Patrick's smile disappears when he opens the bathroom cabinet and is confront with what can only be described as a library of sex products. There's six packets of varying condoms, some ribbed, some flavoured, some thick and some thin. "Bloody hell," Patrick says, "quite the collection you've got here."

"I cater to all," Pete replies.

Patrick picks the most normal-looking condom and grabs a bottle of KY to match. When he walks back into the room, Pete's propped himself up on his elbow, cock in hand. Patrick immediately abandons his attempt to find out if the KY is scented and springs onto the bed. "Just so we're clear," he starts, eyeing the glistening tip of Pete's cock, "I haven't done this in a long time."

"Well, Patrick," Pete says softly, "when an Englishman and a Welshman love each other very much -"

Patrick pounces on him, kissing him hard and fast and greedy. "Shut up," he whispers against Pete's mouth before they exchange tongues, rough and wanting. At this point, Patrick would usually prefer to climb beneath the sheets and turn the lights off; but hiding Pete's body would be akin to sacrilege, even if Patrick's penalty is showing his own.

He cowers between Pete's legs, pushing a finger to Pete's hole and suddenly unable to think about anything but the pressure he's brought on himself. Sure, he's had enough bad sex to know what  _ not  _ to do, but has he had enough good sex to emulate it? Has he even  _ had  _ good sex? He puts Pete's cock in his mouth to distract both of them from his flailing, lubed-up fingers. It's quite effective.

Brendon used to go too fast. Brendon used to leave scratches and bruises and admire them like they were trophies. Patrick slows his probing fingers and takes Pete deep into his throat. He never, ever wants to fuck like Brendon. Pete groans beneath him, his thighs flexing and his chest rising. Patrick will make this good if it kills him.

One by one, he adds fingers, gently stretching Pete open as he sucks. He's only half-hard himself, but Pete's making tiny sighing noises each time Patrick swallows him down, and besides, this isn't about him. He won't be  _ that  _ guy - cock in, game over.

It takes him one more finger and a particularly wet slurp to realise that Pete's frowning at him. When he pulls off and a rope of saliva swings from his mouth to the tip of Pete's cock. He wipes his mouth quickly. "Sorry," he tries.

Pete lets out a hollow laugh and sits up. "Listen, this is great - amazing, in fact - but I'd quite like your cock in me, at some point."

"Sorry," he repeats, looking down at his semi-hard penis. Putting a condom on now would be like trying to put a raincoat on an earthworm. "I just wanted to make it good."

Pete's next laugh is tinged with pity. "Patrick," he says, leaning forwards and cupping Patrick's jaw. "You just sucked me off for ten minutes. This is  _ already  _ great. But," he carries on, his other hand stroking the life back into Patrick's cock, "I’ve hardly seen you so far. You don’t have to pull out all the stops, it's supposed to be fun."

Fun. It's not a word Patrick's ever associated with sex. Intense, perhaps, or dirty, or crazed. It's not a word he'd associate with himself, either; then again, that was before he ran away with a footballer he met on a TV show he won. Pete's hand strokes over his shoulder and he feels himself relax. Seeing as this is, hopefully, the first in a long, scintillating list of love-making with Pete, maybe it doesn't have to be a big deal.

"Come here," Pete says, pecking him on the lips and beckoning to Patrick as he falls back to the sheets. "Gimme that lovin’."

Patrick smiles, crawling up the bed and taking a moment to admire Pete's body. Pete's dick is hard, his cheeks are flushed because of  _ Patrick.  _ The thought sends a spark of thrill down Patrick's spine, and he touches himself eagerly, anticipating Pete's heat, Pete's tightness as he rolls on the condom. He kisses Pete deeply and feels him gasp as the tip of Patrick's cock slides inside.

After that, it's easy. Patrick's never been a natural at anything, but as Pete's moans fall in time with the roll of his hips, he thinks he just might be quite good at this.

"Oh my god," Pete says all of a sudden, putting his hands either side of Patrick's face. "We're - ah - we're properly alone. Patrick!" he cries, "Oh,  _ Patrick!" _

Patrick snorts, but as silly as Pete sounds, it only spurs him on. When he lets out an experimental moan mid-thrust, Pete's eyes light up.

"Fuck, yeah, let loose," Pete pants, his bony pelvis lifting to meet Patrick's soft hips. Patrick's never been loud during sex, never even been overly enthusiastic, but now he screws Pete like they’re rockstars, like there's no tomorrow, burying his cries in the crook of Pete's neck and feeling the rush of Pete’s breathing under his mouth. When he comes, he sees a galaxy of stars.

He manages to slip a clumsy hand around Pete's cock before he collapses, jerking Pete in time with the twitch of his hips. A beatific smile spreads over Pete's face as he sails over the edge, his body going limp beneath Patrick. For a few moments, they lay with each other, hearts beating close together and bodies merged.

“Bloody hell,” is all Patrick can think to say. 

“Agreed,” Pete replies. 

Maybe it’s the sex, or the freedom, or the way Pete looks at him as they curl up together, towel-dried and naked, but Patrick reckons it’s love, plain and simple. With Pete’s head on his chest and Pete’s arms around him, Patrick thinks, maybe, all the hurt might've been worth it. He was headed somewhere, after all. 

*

Patrick divides his life into the time before he met Pete, and the time after. In the time before, Patrick was unhappy. In the time after, Patrick is not. The further he gets from before, the less he thinks about it. The less he thinks about, the less he worries. Patrick is happy and Patrick is wanted and Patrick is loved.

Patrick divorces Brendon and takes his share of the business and not a penny more. The last thing he wants is to feel like Brendon owes him something. He attends the final hearing and he looks at small, angry Brendon across the courtroom and he feels… nothing. Or else, he feels pity, because the hotel is failing without him and Ryan’s not around anymore, having left precisely when the money ran out. “Sorry, mush,” he says in the corridor, shrugging, “look after yourself, yeah.” And that’s the end of his marriage. 

Another thing Patrick does is extend his holiday at Pete’s place. A week, at first. Then a month. Then after Christmas. With Christmas out of the way, it makes sense to sit out the rest of the off-season, since the cottage is empty and all his things are there and Pete doesn’t have anything else to do, so why make themselves miserable at opposite ends of the M4? After six months, Patrick gives in and accepts they’ve moved in together. When he brings it up, nervous, Pete barely looks up from his paperback.

“Yep,” he says, patting Patrick’s ankle, where Patrick’s feet are curled in his lap. “I’m like the Hotel California. You’re stuck with me, I s’pose.”

Patrick’s spent ten years believing he was good for nothing, but he’s starting to suspect he excels in areas both numerous and niche, actually. He just never thought to look for them. Spending entire afternoons marathoning Netflix and eating chocolate digestives, without thinking about order lists, or making beds, or tomorrow’s breakfast, for example. Holding hands for hours at a time. Lying perfectly still whenever Margaret falls asleep on his belly, which is often. Pretending to look interested when Pete talks about football. Falling in love with Pete: sudden, sharp, wonderful. Sex. It turns out, Patrick is really, really,  _ really _ good at sex.

Now, Patrick’s curled on the couch in the big house, arguing happily with Pete’s dad over who Margaret loves more. (It’s Patrick. She loves Patrick so much more.) Pete shuffles into the living room in sweats and mismatched socks, two mugs of tea in his hands. “Cuppa, love?” he says, placing one next to Patrick without waiting for an answer. “C’mon, mum, you’ll miss the start.”

“Hobnobs,” Pete’s mum says, holding out a plate. “Since it’s a special occasion.”

“Lovely,” Patrick says. (It is. The tea. The house. Pete’s family. Pete, Pete, Pete.)

Pete plunks down onto the couch next to him and curls into Patrick’s side like a question mark. Patrick had no idea his heart had such endless capacity for love, that every time he fills himself to the brim, a new reserve opens, he fills fuller and fuller and never overflows. He toys with a tuft of Pete’s hair and closes his eyes. On the TV,  _ Four in a Bed  _ begins.

_ \- fin - _

**Author's Note:**

> Come talk to us on Tumblr! [Panda here](https://the-chaotic-panda.tumblr.com/) and [Snitches here](https://sn1tchesandtalkers.tumblr.com/).


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